


Pandering

by DoveHeart



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Academy arc spoilers, Acquaintances to Lovers, Bisexual Claude, But also I'm deadly serious, Crack, Everythingsexual Sylvain, I didn't know it would turn out like this when I started I promise, I'm aware that nobody signed up for this when they started reading it sorry omg, Ingrid is a good bro, M/M, Scarecrows, Unhappy Ending, character backstory spoilers, slowish burn, this has all gone a bit Garreg Mach Revisited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-02 13:29:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 30,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20762762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoveHeart/pseuds/DoveHeart
Summary: "Who did you tell?" Sylvain demanded.The shock on Ingrid's face gave way to steely anger. "I didn't need to tell anyone! Everyone could hear you. Even the ground floor dorms are talking about your escapades.""Not that!" He ran his hands through his hair. "The- ugh, don't make me say it. You know…""I do not.""The thing. From my callow youth. At the harvest festival."A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. "The scarecrow?""Shhh! Someone will hear!"Ingrid was smiling openly. "Sounds like someone already heard."Or, Claude hears about Sylvain's scarecrow experience and has himself a little fun.





	1. Prologue: Pandering

**Author's Note:**

> Assuming this has been done before/will be done again much better than this, but how can one resist?
> 
> This chapter brought to you by the song Pandering, by Bo Burnham.
> 
> "Good girl  
In a straw hat  
With her arms out in a corn field.  
That is a scarecrow.  
Thought it was a human woman, sorry."  
\- Bo Burnham

The first scarecrow was waiting in the dormitory corridor.

Someone had taken great pains to get it up here. There was a trail of straw leading down the carpet to where it stood propped up on its pole, still caked in soil where it had been dug up from a field. It wore a floppy peasant hat, and longer strands of straw had been laid over its head and tied in crude pigtails. It wore an old holey dress, fraying and threadbare and stained by birds.

"What on earth is that doing here?" whispered Dora, tonight's village girl.

"I have no idea," lied Sylvain. "A stupid prank, I guess."

"What a strange prank."

"You got that right," said Sylvain. "Come on, let's get you to my room before anyone sees you."

She pulled back. "Wait, you mean I'm really not supposed to be in here? I thought you were joking!"

"I never joke, beautiful."

She gave him the look, the one that meant she liked it when she lied because she was the only one who could tell, a look he’d seen a thousand times from a thousand girls. "You don't need to flatter me."

"What flattery?" he replied, and her hand tightened around his waist because all they ever really wanted was to believe him.

"Which room is yours?" she purred.

"The one, uh, behind the, um. I'll show you."

They had to move the scarecrow, which was unwieldy and dropped more straw everywhere, just to open the door. It crashed into the wall and Dora squeaked.

Sylvain tried his best to maintain the evening's charm, holding the door open for her. "Come in, my lady," he said with an elegant bow.

She kept looking at the scarecrow though. "I wonder why it's right in front of your room."

"I guess we'll never know," said Sylvain. "Now come on before we wake everyone up."

Dora grinned. "Oh, I thought we were planning on it."

"Hey!" He covered his mouth. "Not in front of the lady!" He pretended to doff a hat to the scarecrow as Dora slipped into his room, and as soon as she was out of sight he sighed. 

"Are you coming?"

"Be there in a second!" He eyed up the scarecrow suspiciously. "I'll deal with you later."


	2. Closer

Ingrid almost jumped out of bed when her bedroom door slammed open that morning, her book snapping shut between her knees. She yanked her bedcovers higher to cover her nightclothes. "Sylvain, what the hell are you-?"

"Who did you tell?" he demanded from the doorway.

The shock on her face gave way to steely indignation. Even half-dressed in bed with her hair undone and a book of shamelessly sentimental chivalric legends on her lap, she could inspire guilt in him. "I didn't need to tell anyone! Everyone could hear you. Even the ground floor dorms are talking about your escapades."

"Not that!" He ran his hands through his hair. "The- ugh, don't make me say it."

She put down her book and folded her arms.

He checked for eavesdroppers and closed the door quietly behind him. "You know…"

"I do not."

"The _thing_. From my _callow youth_. At the _harvest festival_."

A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. "The scarecrow?"

"Shhh! Someone will hear!"

Ingrid was smiling openly. "Sounds like someone already heard. Who?"

"No need to sound so pleased!" He sat at her desk and put his head in his hands. "I don't know, there was just one there, in the corridor last night."

"A scarecrow? What, really?"

"How did you not see it?"

"Some of us spend our nights sleeping, not roaming around like cats in heat."

He made a face at her.

"Is it still there?" she asked excitedly.

"Obviously it's gone now."

"Obviously."

"I can't believe you're being so unsympathetic!" He sprawled over her desk, covering his face. "You promised you wouldn't tell!"

"And I didn't," said Ingrid. She shuffled around in bed, getting more comfortable. "Anyway, it didn't seem to hurt your chances last night."

"Well of course it didn't. What do you think I am? An amateur?"

She snorted. "One of the few things I don't think you are."

"I'm only young once," said Sylvain. "One day I'll be trapped in a loveless marriage, so you can't begrudge me enjoying myself until then."

"Maybe if you stopped acting so unlovable you wouldn't have to end up in a loveless marriage," said Ingrid sweetly. Or what passed as sweet for Ingrid.

He clutched at his heart. "Ingrid! You wound me! What happened to single till we die? You're supposed to be on my side!"

“Single till we die? How do you even remember that?” She sighed, but she was softening. "That's just something we said when we were kids to make ourselves feel better. It was never real. We were just powerless, and it was-"

"Oh no," said Sylvain. "No, no, no. This is not Ingrid's tragic childhood story time. I refuse. We're talking about me and my problems."

"How long have you got?"

"I'm going to graciously pretend I didn't hear that, because you're my oldest friend. I just need to know who left the scarecrow."

"I don't know. Now get out of my room or I'll scream for help."

Sylvain shook his head. "My oldest friend, and see how she treats me."

"Go bother Felix. What does it matter, anyway? You said yourself it's gone. Let it go."

"I will find out who did this," he said. "You can count on it. And you'd better get out of bed, or you'll be late for class."

Something heavy flew across the room and thumped against the door as he closed it

"And treat your books with more care!"

*

Felix, devouring a whole plate of grilled meats in the dining hall, deigned to look up for a moment when Sylvain sat beside him.

"Oldest friend."

"Sylvain," said Felix brusquely.

"I have a question for you."

Felix sighed.

"You wouldn't happen to have talked to anyone recently? About me?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

Felix's eyes narrowed.

"It's just that last night someone left a...gift? for me in the dormitory, and I was wondering if-"

"I don't care."

"Of course," said Sylvain. "Of course you don't. Well. Worth a try."

*

That could have been the end of it, if scarecrows hadn't started showing up all over the monastery. Subtly at first, visible from the walls or in flashes through gates. Never more than one in a day. But always one. He found himself looking out for them, eyes scanning his surroundings for that telltale posture, the colour of straw, the shape.

"Can you see that?" Sylvain found himself asking anyone who would listen (though not Ingrid, never Ingrid). "You can see that, right? Was that always there?"

Over the course of half a month they got closer, more elaborately dressed. No more peasant clothes. Now they were wearing slips and skirts that Sylvain was sure he'd seen before.

People were looking at him. He was sure they were looking at him. They knew. They must. Should he pretend he couldn't see them? Or would that be even more suspicious?

He could just let the rumour get out and fly free, he reasoned. It wasn't as though he'd actually done anything with the scarecrow back then, or really, any scarecrow at all. Certainly he'd never kidnapped one and dressed it up. And in the end, didn't that mark out the culprit as the _real_ pervert?

*

Nothing Sylvain told himself did much good. He didn't even complain when he was assigned stable duty with Ingrid, too relieved that he'd at least be with someone who knew his secret. And as a scarecrow had appeared there a couple of days ago, peeping out of one of the stalls while a horse nibbled at it, it wasn't likely there would be one there now waiting to taunt him.

He held the pegasus's wing open while Ingrid oiled its feathers down and checked for mites. A boring job, but he wasn't going to complain. Definitely the better end of the deal.

"Looks like he's going into moult," said Ingrid. "We should tell the stablemaster that he's going to be grounded for a while. Aren't you, sweet boy?"

Sylvain made a vague sound of agreement, though he was fairly sure she was talking to the pegasus. Just a few more hours, and then it would be dinner with Vera in town, and trying to avoid Sylvia's eye. She'd be on shift tonight at the pot shop anyway, so as long as he took the right detours there was no chance. And Dora too - she hadn't seemed that cut up when he'd broken it off, but sometimes they were the worst ones. A girl who enjoyed the idea of a noble audience just outside the bedchamber might be a girl who enjoyed the idea of a scandalised audience in the street. She wouldn't be the first. And it wasn't like he minded, but Vera might.

Though if she did, he could always stage a passionate change of heart for Dora…

Ingrid had given up on him and was talking to the pegasus, which was trying to pull its wingtip out of Sylvain's grip. "Are you itchy? I bet. You're just a big sweetheart, aren't you? They said you were a biter but I don't think you are, are you? You’re just moulting."

She reached up and started scratching, picking curved white shards of feather cases out of the neat array of feathers and dropping them on the floor because she was raised in a barn. Shivers ran over the horse's skin and it made a sound between a sigh and a snort, which seemed to signal contentment based on the way Ingrid was cooing to it, but Sylvain moved surreptitiously away anyway. Just in case.

"There you go. That feels better, doesn't it? If only you had fingers. What you need is a nice dustbath."

She must have tickled a sensitive spot or else the idea of a dustbath was about as appealing to the pegasus as it was to Sylvain, because suddenly it changed its mind about how contented it was. It tossed its head and flapped its wings fitfully, pulling right out of Sylvain’s grip. Those beautiful swanlike wings thrashed like weapons.

"Sylvain, you're supposed to be holding him!"

"I'm trying!"

He tried to catch hold of the wing again, but the pegasus wasn't having it. It danced out of his way, ears back and head lowered, snorting in a way that definitely didn't signal contentment. Ingrid was at its head, trying to stop it from getting a good aim at Sylvain with its iron-shod hooves. It snapped at her. Turns out the stablehands knew their charges better than Ingrid did with her eyes full of stars.

"Stay out of the way!"

"Thanks, Ingrid, that hadn't occurred to me!"

"Watch out!"

"What do you _think_-?"

"Sylvain!" Felix's voice rang out accusingly across the stableyard.

Sylvain took his chance. "Sorry, looks like I'm needed!"

Ingrid flashed him an angry look. "That's fine, I'll just take care of this myself, then."

"Okay, thanks!"

Felix didn't look much happier with him, but that didn't mean much. He started to stalk across the stableyard, but stopped when he saw the fretful pegasus still trying to rear away from Ingrid's hands. Instead he contented himself with glaring out of one cold eye and one bruised one. He swiped impatiently at his face and smeared blood over himself from a cut over his eyebrow.

"Felix, no, your pretty face!" _What has he done this time?_

Felix twisted out of Sylvain's grasp. "Get off."

"Did you get in a fight?" Sylvain asked in mock-concern. "Do I have to beat someone up?"

"Shut up."

"Was it Caspar? I hear he's scrappy."

"This stupid scarecrow thing is you, isn't it?" Felix demanded. "Make it stop."

"I can tell you with absolute honesty that it is not me."

"I know it's got something to do with you. Make. It. Stop."

"What even happened?"

Felix narrowed his eyes. "All the training dummies were dressed up," he said, guarded.

"And you…?"

"How is _anyone_ supposed to concentrate?"

"Will you two please take it somewhere else?" asked Ingrid. The pegasus was behaving itself again, submitting to having its nose stroked, but its ears were still back.

"So it was in the training ground today," mused Sylvain.

"I'm impressed you even know we have one," muttered Felix.

"I've heard rumours."

Felix rolled his eyes.

"Strange, though, isn't it?" said Sylvain. "Why put one there-"

"It wasn't just one."

"-when everyone knows I never go in there if I can help it?"

"They were wearing _underwear_."

"Maybe…"

"Where did it _come_ from?"

"Just maybe…" Was it too good to be true? Could it be so easy? "Maybe it's not directed at me at all."

"Or maybe," added Ingrid, "that's just what they want you to think."

Sylvain's face fell. "Why would you say that?"

Ingrid shrugged.

"You know what, Ingrid? This is why you don't have a husband."

She smiled sweetly and kissed the pegasus on the nose.


	3. Shut up and dance

Ashe's voice was a wail. "This isn't even the real ball?"

"Think of it as a practice ball," said Sylvain. "This is just a casual dance to make us spend time with people outside our own house."

Ashe paced his room, head in his hands. "I don't think I can do this."

"Sure you can." Sylvain waited, sprawled in the chair. Let him walk it off.

"I could have done it once, maybe. But _twice_?"

"Oh, I think they've scheduled a few more throughout the year. They really want us to all get along."

"_More_?" Ashe collapsed on his bed, which was covered with every item of clothing he owned, and leapt up again immediately so as not to crease anything. "Can't I just wear my uniform?" he whispered.

"You can't. Sorry. I don't make the rules."

Ashe looked so distraught that Sylvain took pity.

He sighed. "Listen. I'm going to tell you a secret."

"A real one? Not a joke one?"

"A real one." _What kind of person am I?_ "It doesn't actually matter what you wear."

Every time Sylvain thought Ashe's eyes were as enormous as they could possibly get, he widened them again. "But-!"

"But nothing. Ashe, you're adorable. There are going to be ladies queuing up to dance with you regardless."

If anything, this seemed to only terrify him further.

"See? Look at you. Adorable. Like a little rabbit that can kill a man at a hundred paces."

Ashe's eyes were begging him.

"Which is a good thing," Sylvain added.

"But what should I wear?"

"Just pick something that you like. Something that makes you feel good about yourself. And comfortable."

"What do you mean, comfortable?"

"For dancing," said Sylvain. "You're going to be dancing. A lot. Have you really never done this before?"

Ashe eyed up his clothes as though they might turn into snakes at any minute. "There weren't many balls at Castle Gaspard…"

"Right, right."

"Not while I was there, anyway."

"Gaspard, that's in Lord Gwendal's lands?"

Ashe nodded. "That's right."

"That explains it." Sylvain grinned, lost in old memories. "Lord Gwendal, huh. Now _there's_ a man who doesn't appreciate a party."

Ashe didn't ask. Too nervous or too wise to him. His loss. It was a good story.

"Come on, pick something. I won't judge."

_That_ was the wrong thing to say. Ashe had obviously not thought of his tastes being judged until now.

"How about that?" Sylvain asked, pointing vaguely at a pile of clothes.

Ashe picked up a shirt. "This?"

"Sure."

"Um…" Ashe appraised it.

"You know there's no wrong answer."

"If you say so."

"Spoken like a true commoner. Ashe. Have some pride."

Ashe held the shirt against himself and agonised some more. It looked fine. The silver embroidery at the collar complimented the grey of his hair, and honestly, Ashe had the build for whatever he wanted to wear. And even if he didn't, Lord Lonato would hardly have sent his adoptive son to school with a lacklustre wardrobe. "I'm no good at this," he said helplessly.

"You're great at it."

"I don't even know what would look good with this."

"Black. Black goes with anything. Now get dressed and let's see how you look." Sylvain swivelled around on the chair to give Ashe his privacy, ever the gentleman. "Not that anybody will be looking at your clothes, because they'll all be lost in your puppydog eyes."

Ashe groaned behind him.

Sylvain grinned to himself.

"Do you think there'll be any, uh, scarecrows at the ball?" asked Ashe.

The smile fell right off Sylvain's face. "Why would you ask?"

"It just seems like, I don't know, a good opportunity. For whatever's going on. All those people in one place."

"I guess," said Sylvain through his sinking heart. Ashe was right. If there was ever an opportunity… Could he fake a cold and cry off? Probably not.

"Do you even know who's behind it?"

The response came much too defensively. "Why would I know?"

"You just always seem to know what's going on, that's all. You talk to people."

"Oh."

"I hope it isn't causing the farmers too much trouble," said Ashe.

"The farmers! Listen to him! Ashe, if you keep this up I'll marry you myself. You're too cute to live. Only you would look at kidnapped scarecrows in stolen petticoats and think of the farmers."

"Okay, how do I look?"

Sylvain turned around to see Ashe looking immensely nervous in the middle of the soft bright mess of his entire wardrobe, wringing his hands. "Dammit," he said.

"What?" whispered Ashe.

"I think you've done too good a job. Save some girls for me, okay?"

*

The hall was lit with dozens of candles and the band played with enthusiasm and rhythm that more than made up for the cheapness of their instruments. They were a travelling band, hired by the monastery, and it was all so convenient that Sylvain suspected Garreg Mach's academy parties must be yearly fixtures for them, despite the lute player, Valerie, who was currently putting her skilled hands to work, claiming that she'd never been in the region before and could he show her around.

She winked roguishly at him when their eyes met across the floor, over Dorothea's shoulder. Then the steps took him away from her and she bent her head back to the music as it got faster, and the moment was gone. Sylvain knew that look. He'd deployed it often enough himself. She thought she'd broken his heart.

How intriguing.

He'd figure out the best way to play this new twist when the band next took a break - but then the song was over, and he was bowing to Dorothea, more resplendent than even some of the nobler students in a dress fit for a tragic heroine. Her smile was consummately polite and utterly without warmth, so Sylvain made himself even warmer than usual just to see if he could provoke her.

"My lady," he said. "An excellent dance, with an excellent dancer."

"The pleasure was all mine," she replied, all graciousness and perfect acting. "The music seemed to love you. As did some of the band."

And then she whisked her skirts and vanished into the milling crowd between songs. It was like there was a dog in his heart - that was the only way he could describe the urge to chase, the excitement. And if he did have a dog in his heart, it was wagging its tail madly now.

He'd crack her one of these days.

Sylvain sat the next song out, drawing up his plans for Valerie and contemplating Dorothea, wondering what it could possibly mean that she was being the very soul of charm to everyone who wasn't him.

The lack of scarecrows anywhere to be seen made him so giddy he didn't need to accept anything from the flasks the Golden Deer were passing around on the sly.

"May I have this dance?"

Of all people, Claude von Riegan stood before him, arm gallantly extended.

Sylvain feigned shock, looking to left and right of him, _Who, me? Surely not!_ That excitement again. "Why, my lord, I'd be honoured!" He took Claude's hand and stood.

Something tickled his wrist.

That was when he noticed the straw fanning out from Claude's collar and cuffs and everything came together. It must have itched horribly. Sylvain hoped to Seiros it did. Claude only smiled dazzlingly at him, as though he didn't notice.

If he wasn't going to mention that he was dressed like a scarecrow in evening clothes, then neither was Sylvain.

"The professor _and_ me in one night?" said Sylvain as they bowed to each other, music and dancers floating around them. "You're one lucky little deer."

"They do say you're the most eligible bachelor in all of Fódlan."

Sylvain winked at him. "That's not all they say about me."

"Well, I didn't want to repeat such things in polite company."

"The deer can kick! I like it."

People were glancing over at them. Sylvain was ready to put on a show - so ready that he barely noticed Claude taking the lead, hand on Sylvain's waist. Oddly sensitive. It wasn't a place he was used to being touched. Especially not so confidently. So that was how it was going to be, was it?

"You'll have to forgive me," he said. "I've never practised from...this side of it before."

“Then I’ll take it easy on you.”

They began - Sylvain started on the wrong foot. “Sorry, just give me a-” Again. "Okay just wait one second."

He rehearsed the steps in his head, waited for the next bar, and they were off.

"I feel like I've got you at a disadvantage," said Claude, still smiling and acting as though everything was normal and he hadn't spent the last weeks stealing scarecrows and procuring women's clothes to dress them in.

"Don't you worry about me." Sylvain knew he should follow that up with something witty, but he was too busy mirroring his dance steps and trying not to trip over his own feet. Or Claude's. It wasn't as easy as it looked. He kept wanting to look behind him, but forced himself to keep his eyes on Claude.

"Do you trust me?" asked Claude.

_Not as far as I can throw you._ "With all my heart."

"Let me take your weight."

Sylvain wasn't familiar with the music - it definitely wasn't from Faerghus - but he guessed what was coming, and the thrill of improvisation well done zinged through him, right to his fingertips. When Claude leaned forwards, Sylvain leant back into the arm he knew would be there to hold him.

"You're stronger than you look."

"Archery."

"Is that what it is?"

Claude didn't rise to it. Sylvain couldn't read him at all. His eyes were intense, but distant somehow. Sylvain was sure he himself was transparent as glass, having the time of his life.

Claude brought him upright again, and Sylvain almost let himself get carried away, in too close, on the cusp of losing his balance as though he really were drunk.

"You really know how to sweep a guy off his feet." The steps were more familiar now, the rhythm planted in his muscles. He could think again, just a little, without losing his balance.

He'd never spoken much with Claude, or ever really thought about doing so. Most likely nobody would have thought it disloyal to talk to him, but it sort of felt as though it would have been somehow. The other Golden Deer were fine, but Claude was intimidating. There was no other word for it. House leader, heir to a foreign power, tirelessly intelligent and dangerously charismatic.

Good dancer, though.

"Your friend Ingrid looks angry," said Claude, glancing over Sylvain's shoulder.

"Would you believe, that's her approving face. She'll only really get mad if I break your heart."

"Are you planning on it?" What a _maddening_ smile.

“Do you want me to?” Sylvain asked back.

Claude’s gaze sharpened. “I want to know how you’d go about trying.”

Sylvain didn’t let on that he found this unnerving, just smiled broadly and said, “All tactics, all the time, aren’t you? Well, I don’t give away my secrets so easily.”

"Good. I like a challenge."

And what was he supposed to say to that? He took a straw from Claude's collar and held it between his teeth like a rose.

_Say something_, he thought. _I dare you. Admit it was you._

Claude did no such thing. "Big finish?"

"Is there any other kind?"

He managed to stay on his feet a few more bars and then Claude dipped him again, faster and lower. Sylvain's stomach leapt.

They were nose to nose as the last triumphant note rang out, both breathing hard, Claude's eyes almost impossibly green. Hardly a tremor in his arm at Sylvain's back. _Maybe I should take up archery._

He wasn't even thinking about it. It was the end of the dance so naturally he was leaning in for a kiss, and it wasn't until he noticed Claude leaning in too that he realised what he was doing.

Should he do it?

It would be the perfect ending.

And Claude seemed to be…

But was he? Claude kidnapped scarecrows and posed them in women's clothing. Claude dressed as much like a scarecrow as he could himself and pretended nothing was up. Could he trust Claude? He could not.

At the last moment he turned away and laughed to hide his cowardice by drawing attention to it, friendly but self-deprecating, apologetic even. As if to say he knew that he'd broken the moment. He felt the slightest brush of cheek on his as he swerved. Warm, a little rough. Different.

_You idiot_, he was already thinking. _Should have gone for it._

If Claude was relieved or disappointed, he didn't show it. He laughed too, and they bowed with excessive formality, eyes still on each other.

Sylvain's head was spinning as he went back to the wall.

"What the hell was that?" hissed Ingrid.

Sylvain was watching Claude make his way in the opposite direction, then get collared by an Eagle and step gallantly out on the floor again. Claude kissed the Eagle's hand as the first chords started up, and Sylvain felt, of all things, _envy_.

_Regret_, even.

"I have no idea," he said. "But I think I messed it up.


	4. Drove Me Wild

After the dance it was as though Sylvain had developed a sixth sense. Whenever Claude was around, Sylvain's eyes would be drawn to him. And when he saw him, across a courtyard or through the open doorway of the Golden Deer classroom, it was hard not to think of that light cheek-to-cheek touch. If he'd gone to himself for advice and confessed any of this, he'd have laughed in his own face.

Unfinished business, he thought. It wasn't the first time, though it was the first time he'd got in his own way like that.

Only one way to deal with unfinished business.

_Yeah, but how am I supposed to arrange that? Walk into his classroom and kiss him?_

If anyone in Garreg Mach could get away with a move like that, it was Sylvain. And Claude would probably not lodge a complaint. And if he did, there was always the scarecrows to bring up, which wouldn't look good for him, charm or no charm. Dukeship or no dukeship.

In the end he decided against it, or didn't act on it, which amounted to the same thing. There was no right moment. Claude was too sociable by half, and Sylvain didn't relish the idea of having to move Hilda or someone out of the way to do the deed. And he could make all the excuses he wanted, but the truth was, he wanted to recreate the environment of the dance. He wanted to do it all again, spontaneously for the first time, just the two of them, except this time he would end it right.

Doing it like this wouldn't be the same. It might not even work - he might still feel this same hollowness, and then where would he be?

He could always wait for the next inter-house dance, but he was sure that would probably kill him.

Luckily, Sylvain was good at casually being in places where certain other people of interest were likely to be. This wasn't his first time.

Annette stiffened when she saw him and slammed closed the heavy tome on the desk in front of her. "What are you doing here?" she whispered frantically.

Sylvain pulled up a chair. "What? It's the library."

"Exactly!"

"So I'm here to study. Relax."

"Study what?"

"I haven't decided. What are _you_ studying?"

She covered the book with her arms. "It's none of your business!"

Other students were looking up at them in silent annoyance.

"Keep it down," said Sylvain.

"_Me_ keep it down?"

The silent annoyance grew to shushing.

Sylvain shrugged apologetically. _See?_

Annette looked despairing. "Can you please just sit somewhere else?"

"Why? Maybe I can help you out."

"I don't need your help." She pulled the book protectively towards her and covered her notes. "And I definitely don't need your help feeling stupider than I already do, so please go and study somewhere else."

"Come on, are you still upset over that? It was fun." All he'd done was help her with a difficult problem. He didn't know why she was so ungrateful.

"It wasn't fun for me."

"Why not? You learned something too, didn't you?"

The chink in Annette's armour. He saw her start to consider. Weighing her pride against her relentless pursuit of knowledge.

"Really you'd done all the hard work already," he continued breezily. "I was just a fresh pair of eyes. It was a fluke."

"A fluke," repeated Annette. "Huh. So that time you decoded the sigil in that thaumaturgic equation…"

"You'd just tired your eyes out, that's all."

"And that ancient energy flow diagram you interpreted…"

"Total fluke."

"And when you worked out how to prepare the arcane crystals for the blizzard catalyst solution…"

"I had no idea what I was doing. Pure dumb luck."

She chewed her lip. "Well, okay. You can stay. But don't look over my shoulder, okay?"

"I promise."

She opened the book again, hesitantly.

Sylvain was as good as his word, letting the silence expand again and fill the room, looking around at all of these studious heads bent over their work. A pen scratched. Someone coughed. A shadow passed over the doorway but it was just Cyril charging on to his next job.

"No Claude today, huh," said Sylvain.

"Hm?" Annette glanced up, keeping her place on the page with her finger. "I guess not."

"I wonder if he'll show up."

"No idea." Annette went back to her book.

Sylvain leaned back in his chair.

"Oh, you know, actually I think the Golden Deer are out dealing with some bandits somewhere today," said Annette.

"Oh. Huh."

"On some plain, I think. They'll be out all day at least."

"How about that." Sylvain pushed his chair out. "I don't think I'm going to get much studying done today. Head's not in the right place."

Annette suspected _something_, that much was clear. "Oh, okay. I'll see you in class, then."

"See you. You forgot to carry the five there, by the way."

She covered her notes, cheeks red. "All right, that's it. Get out!"

Sylvain sauntered out of the library to a chorus of shushes. He was only trying to help.

*

"So what's going on with you lately?" asked Ingrid.

Ingrid didn't have a dissembling bone in her body, so she gave herself away immediately.

Sylvain dropped more spirals of carrot peel into the bucket. "Nothing. You?"

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. What would be going on with me?"

Her lips thinned.

Sylvain continued innocently peeling his carrot. Just to see how long she could last before she exploded.

Not long. "You've been behaving...well," she said at last. "Better than usual. Though that's a low bar."

"Behaving myself? Whatever do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"I assure you I have no idea."

She flicked a strip of wet carrot peel at him.

"Are you two still not done?" Felix came into the kitchen, hefting a sack of turnips, and dropped it between them. "Are we going to get to eat tonight or what?"

"Ingrid was distracting me," said Sylvain, and Ingrid flicked more carrot peel at him.

"I was asking why he's been behaving so strangely lately," said Ingrid.

"Which I haven't," added Sylvain.

"No, something's off with you," said Felix.

Ingrid gestured with her knife. "Right?"

"I can’t put my finger on it. It's like if Ingrid was off her food."

She turned on him, stung. "Hey, what did I do to you? What's your problem?"

"I don't have a problem," said Felix.

Ingrid spluttered so hard she almost choked.

"Okay," said Sylvain. "Now that is untrue in about fifty different ways, and I'm actually surprised the goddess didn't descend to earth and strike you dead just for thinking it."

Felix rolled his eyes and turned to go.

"Hey." Sylvain held up the bucket of vegetable peelings and shook it gently. "Since you're heading out anyway."

Felix sighed. He took it, with more force than was strictly necessary, and stalked off.

"Thank you!" Sylvain called sweetly after him.

“I wish you wouldn’t rile him up like that,” said Ingrid.

“What? I was defending your honour!”

“You were not. You were riling him.”

“I can do both!”

“He’ll just take it out on some poor innocent student in the training ground later.”

“Or Professor Jeritza, who frankly seems to enjoy it.”

“I’m going to start chopping these. You keep peeling.”

The knife was loud on the chopping board, and for a while longer he was safe from her questions.

“I wonder if doing this will make us into better officers later,” mused Sylvain.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Ingrid. “That’s not why we do chores. Do you know how much we use in terms of resources? And don’t even _think_ it, I know what you’re going to say.”

“Wasn’t going to say anything.” Not his fault Ingrid ate like her beloved horses.

“Liar. Anyway, look, will you just tell me what’s going on with you?” She scraped slices of carrot into one of the huge iron pans. “I haven’t had to comfort a crying girl in weeks.”

Sylvain dug out a brown spot from a carrot with the point of his knife. “I thought you’d be happier about it,” he said.

“You look far too pleased with yourself. I don’t trust you.”

"I just want to make you happy, Ingrid."

"Oh, hush. Have you…” She paused and glanced around. “Have you found someone?"

Sylvain burst out laughing. "Have I _found_-? Ingrid, can you hear yourself? Have I found someone? Really?"

"Well, I don't know if you won't tell me!" she retorted, but she was trying not to smile.

“There’s nothing to tell,” said Sylvain, handing another carrot to Ingrid. “I don’t know what to say. Just enjoy the peace and quiet. While it lasts.”

“That’s the problem. I can’t relax. I’m always expecting something to go wrong.”

“What you need,” said Sylvain, “is an Ingrid. They do wonders for your peace of mind.”

“I have a knife,” she said.

“Just a suggestion. Last carrot.”

She took it from him and chopped it particularly loudly.

“Tell me some more of your theories, though,” he added. “I like this game.”

“If you start on the turnips before Felix comes back and strangles us.”

Sylvain dutifully started hacking away.

"So Mercedes thinks you've run out of girls."

A turnip head skidded off the edge of the table. "She what?"

"Of course I know that wouldn't stop you."

"She should know that's not true anyway," said Sylvain. "I've never asked Mercedes out, so there's at least one left."

"Okay, so, you're awful."

"I'm saving her for a rainy day. Anyway, what else are you thinking it might be?"

"Well, of course at the dance everybody noticed… wait."

"What?" Sylvain realised he'd frozen in place, and forced himself to hack off another slice of turnip. "What did they notice?"

"No, wait, can you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Ingrid groaned. "Ugh, it's Claude."

"What's Claude?" Sylvain's heart jumped. "What are you talking about?"

She cocked her head: _listen_.

And there it was, the sound of his voice somewhere out of sight, but close.

"I'm going to see if there's anything I can help with out back," said Ingrid. "Tell me when he's gone."

"Uh, no, not so fast." He took her wrist as she went to get up. "Explain."

"There's nothing to explain, I just-"

"Does someone like Claude?" he asked playfully. _No you don't. You don't. Don't you dare._

She frowned. "No!"

"Sorry, I mean, does someone admire him in a very professional knightly way?" _Don't even think about it._

"Are you serious? He drives me crazier than you do." Her eyes kept going to the door, expecting him to burst through it any minute. "He's who they decided to let lead the Alliance? Him? The most irresponsible person in this entire Academy, present company excepted?" She lowered her voice to an indignant whisper. "Do you know he told me I should smile more?"

"Well, you have to admit," said Sylvain, relieved, as she thumped him on the shoulder, "it's not like you smile _a lot_."

"Enjoy being terrible people together," she said, twisting out of his grip. "And I want all of those turnips in the pot by the time I come back."

"Anything for you, beautiful," he called after her, just to hear her yell at him.

In all likelihood, Claude wasn't going to come in anyway and Ingrid was just getting out of the job, but nope, there he was, in the doorway, jacket over his shoulder, still dusty from the road. The Golden Deer must have just got back from their mission.

_Thank you, Ingrid. Thank you for being sensitive and dramatic. I will never break another heart ever again._

Claude looked around the kitchen. "Just you?"

"Just me," said Sylvain.

"Is there anything to eat around here? I'm starving."

"Not unless you like raw turnip."

"Eh, not that starving." He sat down in Ingrid's chair. "So I heard you were looking for me?"


	5. We Looked Like Giants

For the first time in a long, long time, Sylvain was at a loss for words. "Well," he said at last, "looking for you is maybe putting it a little strong."

Claude cocked his head. "Oh?"

"Who did you hear it from, anyway?" He spoke lightly and went back to his chopping, sweeping stalks and leaves into a pile on the corner of the tabletop.

"I make it a rule never to reveal my sources," said Claude, and winked when Sylvain glanced over.

There was nothing in his mind, though he ransacked it for a response. "Of course." _This is the closest he'll ever come to admitting it._ He knew it was true without any proof, without ever being able to ask any of the questions that were constantly on the tip of his tongue.

They weren't allowed to talk about the scarecrows, not that there had been any since the dance. Even thinking about them felt dangerous. Whatever this was, this odd chase where he didn't know what he was chasing, that was the only rule. Don't talk about it.

And what was he chasing? What did he want?

"So what did you want?" Claude asked.

_You tell me._

He always had an answer ready. Why not now? He always knew what he wanted. He always had an agenda.

_So make an agenda._

"I just. I really enjoyed dancing with you."

_This is your big agenda?_

Obviously not. This was his cover.

"I was wondering if you could give me some tips."

"Dancing tips?"

"If you have time. Whenever." Just to get it out of his system. He got up to find another bucket for the tops and tails and peels (praying that Felix wouldn't choose now to come storming back in) and when he turned back around Claude was pointing the kitchen knife at him.

"My first tip," Claude said, "is not to back out of a big finish mid-way through."

Deception was easy, and now Sylvain had been handed something to hide. He winked, back on solid ground. He spread his hands. "I didn't want to ruin your reputation!"

"Oh, really?"

"Do you have any idea how many angry fathers I've had come after me for despoiling their children? And I've heard yours is really something."

"And just where did you hear that?"

Sylvain held out his hand and Claude spun the knife deftly in his hand, gave it up handle-first.

"No, don't tell me. That has Hilda's gossipy little fingerprints all over it."

"I couldn't possibly say."

"Naturally."

The game settled back around them. Sylvain began to see all the paths they might take. This he knew. This was familiar.

"Anyway, it's my mother you really want to watch out for," said Claude.

“Oh, _really_?”

"And not with that look on your face," Claude added, teasing. "She'd eat you for breakfast and pick her teeth with your bones."

Sylvain weighed it in his mind. "Hell of a way to go, though."

"I can introduce you if you value your life that cheaply."

An exit, offered to him on a plate. End it here and call it done. He'd chased Claude and caught him and hadn't known what to do with him. Everything back to normal. There was a whole monastery full of girls to chase down more familiar paths.

It wouldn't satisfy him.

"Maybe not just yet," he said. "I couldn't bear hearing the laments of the women over my untimely end."

"Very considerate. All that wailing and gnashing of teeth."

"Exactly. And a man can't go to his grave before he learns to dance, can he?"

Just the gentlest nudge back on course but Claude saw right through it. "Why the sudden interest?"

"Call it a whim."

"Trying to steal an advantage for the White Heron Cup?"

Sylvain barked out a laugh. "Seriously? They may as well just crown Dorothea now. I'd hand her the trophy myself, happily."

"I didn't think of you as the type to give up that easily."

"Oh, I don't. I just know how to pick my battles."

They could do it here. He imagined coming clean, just saying it out loud: _Look, I like to chase things. I like anything I haven't done before. I don't like regrets and I regret not kissing you, so can you humour me and let me have this, and then I'll let you go about your life?_

He imagined Claude accepting _that_ without a word.

He imagined doing it here, getting it out of the way.

It wouldn't satisfy him.

"So, will you?" And it felt good to turn the tables, to be waiting for an answer from Claude for once.

Claude sized him up.

Sylvain wondered what he was seeing.

"When are you free?" Because of course he would reply with another question.

"Depends," said Sylvain. "How good are you at chopping?"

Claude turned out to be a quick and efficient kitchen worker when he put his mind to it.

"Coming?" he asked as the last handful of turnip went into the pot. He asked it like a dare.

Sylvain would never turn down a dare, and for good reason. Look at where he was now. His courage had failed him once already and every time he balked now the price of his inner peace would only increase. He knew, deep down, what he wanted. If only because he'd never considered wanting it before. "Lead the way."

He apologised silently to Ingrid, but the work was done and really, he was doing her a favour by keeping Claude out of her way if she felt so strongly about him.

*

"Wait, where are we going?"

"Don't you trust me?"

"Of course, I just thought we'd be going to your room…"

"My room? What happened to saving my reputation?"

"I was being a gentleman, I didn't think you were actually ashamed of me."

"I never said 'ashamed'."

"You know, I don't think we're supposed to be here."

"Where would you get that idea?"

"...From having been here before."

"_That_ promises a story."

"A short one. We got chased out pretty quickly."

"Then you'll just have to be quiet this time, won't you?"

"Wait, what do you think we're doing?"

"What do _you_ think we're doing?"

"Hey, what- hey!"

*

The moment hung in the air, suspended.

The smell of wet leaves, faint decay, a slight sheen of rain in the evening.

Claude's eyes in the dark. His finger to Sylvain's lips.

Sylvain's back against the wall. Cold through his jacket.

Claude asked him a question with his eyes.

_Is this how you dance back home?_ Sylvain wanted to ask back, but he didn't want to set time going again. Not yet. _I've never practised from this side_. More words to swallow.He couldn't stop thinking of stupid one-liners. Let them stay here like this forever. Let him look forever, let him enjoy this denial, the uncertainty of the gamble. The cards still face down, the dice still under the cup.

Both waiting.

_He knows, right? He knows what this is._

The only sound was their breathing, so close, close enough to touch. All it would take was one, and though Sylvain could have stared into Claude's ocean-green eyes for another eternity he reached, slowly, savouring it.

His fingers in Claude's hair and Claude's hand between his shoulderblades, a fistful of jacket and shirt, grip grazing the skin beneath, and this, _this_ was something Sylvain knew how to do.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss that was made for Academy dances.

The wall was uncomfortably hard and the rain was soaking through Sylvain's clothes layer by layer but Claude's mouth was warm and his hands were warm and Sylvain couldn't feel anything else but that right now. He basked in the heat.

His hands were down the back of Claude's neck, over his shoulders (_Archery? Really?_) and around the rim of his collar, down to the buttons.

Claude's hands were around his wrists before he could start. His voice in Sylvain's ear. "What do you think you're doing?"

_Backtrack, backtrack_. "Sorry, I just-"

"You want to take me like one of your village girls? I don't think so."

Wrists pinned against the wall by one warm hand, no time to wonder what was going on before Claude's other hand cupped his hip, and his fingertips worked down through the waist of his trousers in a shock of skin on skin, and down, and-

"Well, how about that," Claude murmured in his ear. "So lions _can_ purr."


	6. Graffiti

After that, barely a word. They didn't need words, and if they had, Sylvain couldn't have found them anyway.

Sylvain made his unsteady way back to the kitchens, hardly sure how he'd got there, half-convinced some part of him was still up against the wall, pliant, sighing, in the palm of Claude's hand. He was used to being an active participant, moving things along. He was used to being the one doing the touching. Eliciting the sounds, not making them.

He took Ingrid's tongue-lashing meekly, untouchable, floating somewhere out of his body.

Now, he thought, everything could go back to normal.

The way Claude had so insistently held him back every time he so much as thought of returning the favour. Why? Sylvain didn't know what the girls said about him behind his back, but surely his wealth of experience counted for something, even here.

Then again, the way it had kept him alone, no distractions, with his pleasure. Just him in his body. In a way he never had been before. That was new.

It was almost decadent. Just to lie back and _let_ him...

"Sylvain, you can stop grinning away to yourself," snapped Ingrid. "What was I supposed to do? I came back here and you were just gone! No word of where you were, or how long you'd be."

Like a bucket of cold water over his warm memories.

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."

"You're what?"

"I shouldn't have gone."

She blinked. "Oh."

"It won't happen again," he said, and he meant it.

"Oh. Well. Good."

*

"So, the Battle of the Eagle and Lion is coming up," said Dimitri, as they waited in the Blue Lion classroom for the professor to arrive.

"We know," growled Felix from the corner.

Dedue turned his head.

"Manners," said Sylvain to head him off. "We know, _Your Highness_."

"Shut up."

"I was thinking of broaching the subject already," Dimitri continued. "With the professor, I mean. I thought it might be a good idea to begin our preparations now."

"You can never be too prepared," agreed Mercedes blithely.

She didn't even look at him, but whatever Felix had been about to say, he swallowed it.

"If it's already there at the back of our minds, it gives people a chance to, ah, catch up, as it were, where they've been having difficulties."

Mercedes smiled beatifically. "I think you'll find I was in the training ground every week last month."

"Offering tea to everyone who was _actually training_," muttered Felix.

Annette rounded on him. "Oh please, it's not like you were complaining!"

"That's because I'd earned it," Felix hissed back at her.

Ingrid spun to face him, hair whipping around her shoulders. "Will you stop?"

Felix contented himself with glaring.

"Carry on, Your Highness," said Ingrid.

"Brown-noser," muttered Felix, but Sylvain was the only one who heard and gave him a warning look, which only set him off again. "As if you have a leg to stand on! When was the last time you picked up a weapon?"

"I'm not here to get in a fight-"

"That's exactly your problem! The only thing you're here to get into is-"

"I'm not naming names," said Dimitri firmly. "Everyone knows where they're doing everything they could and where they could do better. So this is just a reminder to start working harder."

"I think it's a good idea," piped up Ashe stoutly, prompting a chorus of agreement.

Felix pointedly said nothing, which was good enough.

When the professor arrived, Dimitri poured out earnestly what was in his heart, and Byleth nodded solemnly in the kind of as-you-wish way that Sylvain had come to expect from her when she was addressing anyone but him. He'd asked her to dinner _once_ \- platonically! - and he'd never got the as-you-wish nod since.

*

Back to normal life. Back to avoiding the training ground and trying not to doze through tactics class and juggling his dinner dates and then he'd catch Claude's eye across the length of the walled garden or down the dormitory corridor and there they'd be again, up against a wall or around a corner or in some ruined storehouse that nobody had looked at in decades, because maybe this would be the last time it would work. Maybe next time when they looked at each other nothing would happen. Maybe Sylvain would look away and feel nothing. His heart wouldn't leap painfully, his brain wouldn't empty of thoughts, he wouldn't immediately find himself hard and hot and adjusting his uniform, snatching for any excuse he could find to get away.

Maybe next time all of those things would happen and Claude simply wouldn't be there.

He had to take the moments as they came and squeeze every one for all it was worth. Sylvain knew how this worked.

Back to normal life.

*

Eyes caught, gazes read, excuses made.

They spoke in touch and sighs. Sylvain had got all of his lines about lions and deer out of his system early on. Lions dens and swallowing whole and come into my lair, all thankfully said and out of the way so he could focus on the rest.

Still, sometimes words were needed.

"No." Sylvain stopped short, shaking his head. "Oh no. I don't think so."

"What do you mean, no? You can't say no."

Sylvain's desire was pulling him onward like a magnet to where Claude stood in the sun, glowing like a saint in a painting, but he held firm. "Actually, I think you'll find saying no is a very important part of any relationship. Trust me on that."

Claude grinned. "Relationship?"

"I do believe," said Sylvain, "that they call what we do, 'having relations'. Ergo."

"Don't move too fast and scare me off. I'm a Deer, remember. A timid woodland creature. You have to be gentle."

"Behold my claws, sheathed in velvet." He made a flourish with his hands. "Now get back here and we'll find somewhere else."

Claude didn't move. He stood there studying Sylvain like a puzzle. "Why?"

"This place is filthy."

"It's _nature_."

"It's _the woodpile_."

"Rustic charm."

"Centipedes."

"I'll keep them away."

"I won't be responsible for explaining to poor innocent Cyril what he walked in on."

"Leave Cyril to me. He's going to be busy for the rest of the day elsewhere."

Already compromising. Already letting himself be persuaded. Before he could even find a good comeback he was in the sun and Claude's hands were on him. It felt good to be persuaded. And if he closed his eyes then he wouldn't have to know where they were.

It smelt of summer and raw wood, and it felt the height of luxury to lie back (on his jacket to avoid the worst of the spiders and splinters and ugh don't think about it) and let himself be looked after. Solipsistic, perhaps, to enjoy it as much as he was, this style so similar to his own most favoured methods, as though he were being seduced by himself, but he could hardly complain about it now that Claude was going to all this effort.

He sneezed at the height of it all, an exquisitely pleasurable discomfort, and Claude said, "You did that on purpose."

"I promise I didn't. Try again, I'll prove it."

"Nice try," replied Claude. "I'll take that as a compliment on my technique."

Where did he learn it?

Sylvain couldn't bring himself to be too curious. Some mysteries were better left as they were. This was definitely one of them.

He lounged languid as a dozy lion, not ready to go back to normal life yet. But this wasn't the kind of arrangement where they could spend too much time in each other's company.

_Make conversation_, he thought. _Something neutral._

"It's a shame they call the mock-battle the Eagle and Lion."

_Great. Real neutral._

"The Golden Deer must feel pretty left out."

"Not really." Claude's hand wound lazily through Sylvain's hair. "The original battle predates the founding of the Alliance. We were all lions then."

"Hard to imagine."

"Why's that on your mind anyway?"

"Oh, just...it's coming up. Only two months to go."

"Have the Lions started their planning yet?" Claude asked, too innocently.

Sylvain's eyes snapped open.

"Kidding," said Claude. "I'm not going to ask you to spill all your house secrets. Unless you want to."

"How dare you." The effect of his words was somewhat spoilt by a yawn. "I wouldn't sell my country out so cheaply."

"Shame."

"I thought you liked a challenge."

Claude stroked his hair absentmindedly and Sylvain sighed in contentment. "I like my tame lions too."


	7. Too Much

Sylvain thought he was dog-tired after the month's mission, until he saw Claude in the dining hall. He almost regretted it. Almost. But he wasn't tired anymore. His bones weren't heavy now; they were fire, sparks yearning to rise right out of his skin. His nerves zinged back to life, hot wires running through him. He was no longer stone, but a burning point of matter, a hair-thin beam of light focused on one thing.

Claude saw him too, mid-conversation, eyes across the room. The laugh died on his lips.

Sylvain wondered what he looked like. Hopefully not like someone who had seen what he'd seen.

Claude gave him the barest nod and picked up the thread of his conversation again.

Sylvain left the hall and waited by the door, leaning back on the wall, eyes closed, trying to find some purchase between dragging fatigue and the insistent heat between his legs. He shouldn't be doing this. It was a bad idea. Not the time.

Claude left the hall without looking at him. Sylvain followed behind.

Too late for all that now.

This time he found himself in front of a locked room at the end of a corridor that even Cyril had probably never seen, let alone swept. Claude produced a key.

"Everything okay?" Claude asked.

_It is now_, Sylvain thought, but he couldn't speak.

Inside was some broken furniture, sloping shelves and stacked chairs against the walls missing legs and backs. Dust. Cobwebs hanging from the ceilings, softening the corners. Sylvain caught flashes of it before he fell on Claude like a starving wolf, before Claude kicked the door shut again and trapped them in darkness.

Sylvain's eyes were closed anyway. He knew the feel of Claude by now, and if they crashed into a desk here and there then he didn't mind it against the bruises of the battle he'd returned from. He was looking for a wall, some surface to press Claude against. Turn those tables for once. He was ravenous for it.

He didn't go for the jacket this time with all its buttons - didn't trust his hands not to shake - but right for Claude's hips, scrabbling at his uniform with clumsy fingers.

"Hey."

Again the hand on his. Claude pushed him away but Sylvain would not be pushed.

Louder. "_Hey_."

A grip he couldn't twist out of. He was back against the wall anyway. Somehow he always ended up here.

"I said, is everything okay?"

Sylvain let Claude bring his hand up, hold it between their chests. His hand the only thing between them. He could feel both their heartbeats; Claude's fast and strong; his own frantic. "It's fine. Everything's fine."

"Bad mission?" asked Claude as though he hadn't spoken.

Sylvain sighed, more than air. Everything he'd been holding onto. "Pretty bad." It came out shaky with nervous laughter or hysteria. Probably both. "That was the first time I thought…" But the thought stuck in his throat. "I thought we might not all…"

"But you did?"

"Yeah, everyone came back."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Sylvain made himself smile in the pitch dark. "Nope." _I want to forget myself_. He reached out in the dark.

Claude stopped him.

"Why won't you ever let me touch you?" The words were out before Sylvain could think better of them. He was too out of sorts to think better of them. He knew this place in his head, where it was easier to break things than look at them. "In my experience - and I do have some - it doesn't end well. If that's where this is going, then we might as well just end this here. You know? It's been fun. Let's let it be fun."

"Don't say stupid things."

It was as though he'd thrown a glass at a wall and it had bounced off, intact. Usually this was all it took and everyone involved was glad enough to let it break.

"Trust me," said Claude.

Faint scrabbling sounds, and against all his better judgement Sylvain fought down his restless energy and let himself be pushed around. Claude sat him down on a desktop. Sylvain could feel how filthy it was even through his clothes, and Claude should know what a sign of trust it was that he hadn't run outside to throw himself in the fishpond.

"If I give you want you want," said Claude, "you're going to get bored."

And his hands were _very_ good.

Sylvain gave up his half-hearted attempts at self-sabotage. "How do you know this isn't what I want?"

"Because you're incredibly transparent."

A shiver ran down the length of Sylvain's body.

"No offence."

"I'm very offended," murmured Sylvain.

"Then let me make it up to you."

Sylvain tried to let himself relax the way he usually did, but something inside him remained knotted up. Claude's hands brushed his ribs and Sylvain tensed, hissed.

"Did that hurt?" Concern in Claude's voice.

"Not your fault." But the strain showed through.

Even white magic healing left its mark. The flesh was whole but something within the body remembered the damage. The nerves remembered the pain. For a few hours or days, no more than that. Nothing to do but let it take its course.

"What happened?"

"I was stupid."

Claude's touch grew gentler, bearable. Sylvain relaxed again, let the tension out of his muscles one by one.

"Tell me."

"You'll hear all about it soon enough." Well, that was a stupid thing to say. If there was one way to attract Claude's interest…

His ribs ached, sharper than bruises, deeper. _Just don't think about it. It's over and you're home, and nobody had to die because you can't look where you're going, and Miklan won't be back to bother you again._

"Take this off."

A tug on his jacket.

"What, here? No!"

"So you're scared of dirt but not monsters?"

Of course he'd already heard. Claude knew everything. Reports travelled faster than exhausted students. "Who said I wasn't scared of the monsters?"

"It'll be easier if you just trust me."

Sylvain had no idea what it was about those words that made him want to, even though it was Claude, whose agendas had agendas, about whom he knew absolutely nothing.

Claude slipped the jacket from his shoulders, and then his shirt. "Lie down."

"Are you serious?"

"Are _you_? I'll lay out your clothes if it's that much of a problem."

"Don't you-!"

"Too late. Come on. On your front. Relax."

Sylvain had to manoeuvre himself carefully around all of his ghost injuries but he did it anyway, obediently, thinking glumly of how many times he'd have to wash his clothes once they were done here. Not to mention himself.

"I said relax. That's not relaxed." Firm hands on his shoulders.

"What are you even ohhh, don't stop, more of that, yes."

Claude’s hands pushed hard against his tense muscles, past normal and discomfort and pain to some other realm where everything was deep, deep pleasure. "See? This is what you get for listening to me. Good things happen."

Sylvain closed his eyes as Claude's fingers probed the knots in his muscles, dug out the stiffness.

_What are you getting out of this?_ he wanted to ask, but to ask the question was to invite the question. He didn't want to think about that yet.

So he lay heavy, like water, like something melted, on the desk, and if it meant so much to Claude that he make Sylvain feel so good, who was he to say no?

Despite his best efforts his body squirmed under Claude's expert hands as they hit another sharp ache.

"Another one? Sorry."

Sylvain shook his head to say it was fine, biting his tongue to keep from crying out.

But it was a long one, where his brother's claws had _Don't think about it._ and Claude kept running across it despite his best efforts.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"Don't stop."

"Usually when someone said that to me I'd need no further encouragement, but… are you sure?"

"Sure." It was more gasp than word. As butterfly-light as Claude's fingers were, his touch burned along those lines as though Sylvain had been laid open to the bone. Which, of course - but he wasn't thinking about that now.

"I think I can _feel_ this one, underneath the skin. There's something… Huh, fascinating, but also… unpleasant."

Sylvain squeezed his eyes shut, glad of the pitch dark.

"They really did a number on you."

"I really did a number on myself. If I'd just been paying attention…"

Claude went back to massaging Sylvain's shoulders. His hands loosened words as well as muscles.

"Everything was fine," Sylvain found himself saying, "it was all under control, and then I… And then it all went to hell. Everyone was in the wrong places, because of… And Felix lost his temper, so…"

"I see."

"No, you don't! You're thinking he got sloppy, right? He got careless? You'd think so. He seems the type. But no, the angrier he gets, it's like the more invincible he thinks he is. You could kill him and he wouldn't notice. He'd just keep on going."

He felt himself tense under Claude's fingers. Claude just kneaded his muscles right back into submission. Archer's hands. Calloused and hard and relentless, playing him like a bowstring.

"If it wasn't for Mercedes keeping an eye on him sometimes… His favourite hobby besides beating people up and polishing his swords is terrifying me on the battlefield, I swear."

"But everyone came home okay?"

"Yeah." Hold onto that, he thought. Everyone came home. "If any one of them hadn't been there…"

"But they were."

"They were," Sylvain agreed.

"And as much as I enjoy spending time with you like this, you should probably go sleep it off."

_He enjoys spending time with me_. "There's nothing I can think of that I want to do less."

Claude's fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. "Oh, you're not tired, are you?"

Sylvain had to shift over on the desk, he got hard that fast. "Well, I'm not _now_."

The desk creaked with both of their weights, but it quickly became unimportant. Claude was careful, leaving Sylvain's back alone, avoiding the sore place at his ribs. Sylvain was not, clawing and pulling Claude in closer as though if he tried hard enough they could become one body.

The next time he cried out under Claude's hands it wasn't for pain.

*

The candle was burning low in Claude's room. The quiet settling noises from the dorm rooms to either side of his had long since fallen silent. _Just to the end of this chapter_, he thought, _and then I'll sleep. Or run through that last manoeuvre from the Hresvelg treatise again one more time and then sleep. Or get a new candle and read one more chapter and then sleep._

The fourth Duke of Hrym was one of the more sacrifice-happy generals whose work Claude had read, his victories bought dearly, but here and there were useful gems of information that didn't involve sending soldiers to die, and his writing style was vivid and precise. Valuable qualities in a text like this. Often it was like squeezing blood from stones, disentangling the lessons from the dry dead thorn vines of the words. Hrym was from a time when a general had to be an orator. This one especially. Claude was under no illusions as to his own persuasive skills, but he doubted he'd have been able to convince a shepherd to prepare a sheep for a banquet the way Hrym had convinced captains to send their men to the slaughter.

He wrote about his travels through the borderlands between Adrestia and Brigid with particular detail, as though he'd enjoyed his time there, bloody as it was. Claude had never been there, but he felt as though he had, reading this. He could smell the warm rains that pulled in the mists from the narrow sea channel and destroyed visibility in minutes, steaming fogs that wouldn't be burned off by torches or the sunrise, not until the land itself decided to clear the air. He had pored over pen-and-ink sketches of all the leaves and flowers that must be avoided by livestock, or harvested by those skilled in boiling and mixing and distilling. Pound the petals of this one, boil them down, dip an arrow and you hardly needed to hit your target to kill them.

Would that take the fun out of it? The only way to know was to try it, and Claude hoped he'd never have to.

It was all no substitute for going in person, of course. One day.

He could always ask Petra more about it. Not hard, just phrase it as simple curiosity and she'd be more than happy to answer his questions. _Tell me about where you come from. How's the weather? What's the food like? How fast could an army move in the height of summer?_

It wasn't like he was really planning to invade Brigid. Just a little game he played with himself, to see if he could do it. Change up the variables and plan the perfect attack. Pick a spot on a map and work out how to defend it against this army or that.

Someone giggled outside, and someone else - Sylvain, of course - hushed her. Sylvain, who was meant to be sleeping off what sounded like a horrendous mission. Sylvain, who'd better not be overdoing it.

Claude looked up from his book, listening until the pair crept past his door and out of earshot.

_He'll come back to me._

Then he wasn't thinking about the terrain of Brigid anymore, but the terrain of Sylvain's body. The curves and planes of him, laid out like a map. Claude knew the lie of his land as well as any favourite battlefield, somewhere to return to in his mind again and again. And the conquest wasn’t so different - he knew where to hold, when to pull back, when to cede and when to push through. He knew how to win under any conditions. The whole of Sylvain’s body was imprinted in Claude’s fingertips. He flexed his hands, and then he was there again, planning his attack, a virtuoso performance. Did anyone else know Sylvain as well as he did? They couldn’t. Claude was the only one who could give him this.

_He’ll come back._

Wait. Hold up. What. What happened to keeping this professional?

The candle guttered.

Claude closed his book and put it on the nightstand. “Huh,” he said quietly to himself. “Not the way I imagined this going.”


	8. Sleeps With Butterflies

"Tactics," Claude had said. "That's what you need. It's the foundation for everything that happens on the field. I can help you with it, if you want. If there's ever anything you don't understand, just come to me and I'll see if I can talk you through it."

Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea, Sylvain thought, waiting with not a little trepidation for the tactics lesson to start. If he understood more of what was going on, then he was less likely to cause disasters. And with Claude on his side, who read tacticians' memoirs as light bedtime reading, it wouldn't even be hard.

_Okay, Sylvain. Time to pay attention for once in your life._

Annoyingly, because he’d daydreamed through so many of these lessons, there was no beginner-friendly starting point. It started right in the middle of an exercise the class had apparently been working through last week.

Byleth unrolled a map on the desk, showing the Tailtean plains, and gestured at them to begin.

“So we were talking through how to make our way through this forest here,” said Dimitri, “in order to get to our enemy camp there, and disrupt their supply chain.” He pointed at a mark inked on the map.

Sylvain nodded along with the others, as though he had any idea what was going on.

“So how big is the forest?” Annette asked.

“The map’s to scale,” said Dimitri. “One to ten.”

Whatever that meant.

“Um, what kind of trees are they?”

“Does it matter,” muttered Felix.

Ingrid shot him a look.

“I must say,” said Dimitri, “I think Felix is right. I don’t believe it matters.”

Felix’s expression only darkened further.

“I just thought it might be nice for the atmosphere,” said Annette. “These things are always easier when I can really imagine that I’m there.”

“And we can’t go around it?” asked Ashe.

“We could, but then we lose cover. Is that a trade-off we’d be willing to make? Don’t forget the way the hills fall here. That gives the enemy the perfect view of this area here.”

“Just cut it down,” said Felix. “There, that takes care of the forest. Next.”

The silence grew uncomfortable.

“I don’t know if you’re allowed to do that,” said Ashe quietly.

“Who’s going to stop you? Your imaginary soldiers? Your imaginary enemy? You’re the imaginary general, after all.”

“Felix,” said Ingrid warningly.

The class continued. Flanks and pincers and lines of sight. Capturing strongholds and drawing the enemy out.

“Wait,” said Sylvain, squinting at the map, his head spinning, “Why would you ford the river here instead of just crossing the bridge?”

“That bridge will be well guarded,” replied Dedue. “Better to take the enemy by surprise where he won’t be expecting it.”

“Oh, I guess that makes sense.”

Ingrid was staring at him.

“What?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because we have to... take the enemy by surprise?”

“Not about that, about this!”

“About what?”

She gestured to the map, the room. “About any of this! What is with you lately?”

Of all people, Dimitri spoke up. “Ingrid, no. Leave him.”

“Your Highness?”

Well, this was unlooked-for. Sylvain would take it.

“We should be encouraging this behaviour, not rebuking him for it!”

Sylvain shrugged at her as if to say, _What can you do? You heard him._

“Your Highness,” she began firmly, but he held up a hand and she, ever the obedient knight, fell silent.

“I knew he’d come to appreciate the value of hard work sooner or later. Sylvain.”

“Your Highness?” Ingrid had this tone of voice she used when she was being obedient but disapproving, like a shadow of the one she used with Felix and Sylvain, like a horse with its ears back who nonetheless goes for the jump against its better judgement.

“Ask all the questions you want.”

Sylvain nodded. “That’s… Thank you. I’m very honoured.”

Ingrid narrowed her eyes at him.

Every now and then Felix would pipe up. Steal the enemy’s horses. Burn the village as you leave. Attack in the middle of the night. Burn the fields too. Send wyverns to steal the enemy’s horses and kill the two birds of feeding the wyverns and immobilising the enemy with one stone.

“Felix, please,” said Dimitri at last in despair, and it was just what Felix had been waiting for.

“This is a waste of my time,” he said, got up and stalked out of the room.

_Ah, yes, this is why I don’t usually care about these things._

In the ensuing quiet, everyone turned tentatively to Ingrid.

She threw up her hands. “Not his keeper!”

“You kind of are, though,” said Sylvain with an apologetic shrug.

“I’m not responsible for either of you.”

“Sending wyverns to raid the enemy’s livestock didn’t sound like that bad an idea, actually,” said Mercedes. “Poor horses, though.”

Ingrid sighed. “Wyverns do always eat the most,” she conceded. “If you could take feeding them out of the equation…”

“I think I might have read something similar in one of the Moon Knight stories,” added Ashe.

Dimitri frowned. “I suppose it would be...efficient. If underhand.”

“And tricky to pull off if they have good archers,” said Annette thoughtfully.

“Can you fly them at night? Archers need visibility but wyverns just need enough space to grab a horse.”

Sylvain did his best, he really did. But everything was so abstract and moved so fast, it was all he could do to hold single thoughts in his head to take back to Claude. He could fight passably well without working too hard at it, and he had that knack for magic that annoyed Annette so much, but that was a case of deciphering something already there. That was easy. Someone else had already done the hard work and it was just a case of seeing it. This was impenetrable nonsense.

*

_This is impenetrable nonsense_, thought Claude as he nodded along.

"Did you know that?" asked Sylvain excitedly.

"Hm?"

"You can just pretend to retreat! Then the enemy thinks it's over and comes flailing after you, and you can just turn around, totally disciplined, and crush them. Who knew? Did you know?"

"I did, actually," said Claude.

"I had no idea you could do that. And have you ever heard of this thing called a, what is it, a flange? Where you-"

"A phalanx," said Claude.

"Right! But the plural is flanges?"

"Phalanges. Or phalanxes."

"I was sure they were saying flanges. Huh. Anyway, apparently it works? You just set up your guys in this specific order, real close together, and as long as everyone stays in line then apparently it just...works!"

_Somehow he got into the Officer's Academy_, thought Claude. _The most elite military academy in the entire country. He cannot be this stupid._

He had to resist the urge to correct, to teach, to shake him and say, _How do you not know about phalanxes, the single greatest factor in the victory at the Tailtean Plains, which founded your own actual country? How do you not know that they can turn against you in an instant if you put in one wrong soldier, that if it collapses then it's worse than having done nothing at all?_

He couldn't lose his patience and risk showing his hand.

_You almost had me, Gautier. But flanges? Too far. Nobody is that dumb. Well played._

"And don't even get me started on the burning and the chopping," Sylvain was saying. "Now look, I come from a border territory, so I know raids and reavers and all of that unpleasantness, but I never imagined a whole army using tactics like that."

"Really?" Claude couldn't stop himself at last. "What did you-? What? Really?"

"Really! Aren't we supposed to be the good guys?"

Claude was almost speechless. Almost. "No! We're supposed to be the winning guys!"

Sylvain considered him, smile still playing at his lips. "So, what, it's anything to win?"

_Oh, you know exactly what's going on._ He had to answer carefully, but too carefully and he'd give the game away, just when it was getting fun. "Yes," he said. "Anything to win."

Sylvain was loving this. "You're so devious! I never knew!"

"Do you just not know who I am?"

Sylvain leaned back against the wall. "All right, all right, I just never knew you were _this_ devious."

"I guess I can't complain too much. I still find myself surprised by you even though I know _your_ reputation in very great detail." Maybe he was stepping out onto thin ice, but he couldn't resist anyway.

Sylvain's eyes widened with something that looked suspiciously like delight. "_Detail_? Tell me everything."

"I'm sure you can imagine."

"Oh, I can imagine a lot, but it always pays to be on top of your own rumours." He winked. "That's some free advice from me."

"Thanks. I'll treasure it always."

"As you should."

"So how was she?"

"Who?" He genuinely sounded like he didn't know what Claude was talking about.

"I didn't catch her name, I'm afraid," said Claude. "Just the slightest giggle outside my door."

"Ohhh, you mean…? Yeah, Yasmin… I mean, she was...fine. Not that I make a habit of kissing and telling." 

Claude was the master of the neutral expression.

"You aren't…?"

Claude looked over at him in mild curiosity.

"Aw, beautiful, are you jealous?"

Claude spluttered a laugh. "I'm sorry, _what_ did you call me?"

Sylvain covered his mouth. To his credit, he at least looked genuinely surprised at himself. "Just slipped out. Sorry. Habit."

"Well thank you anyway. I'm flattered. Nobody's ever called me that before."

"Wait, seriously?"

"You sound surprised."

"I am! I mean, really? Nobody?"

Claude shook his head. People had called him a lot of things. Sly, clever, schemer, tactician, strange, outsider, charming, deceptive. All kinds of things, some of them meant well and some of them not. His looks had never really come into it. Every now and then someone might say he was 'striking', in a way that meant they didn't know how to put what they were really thinking in a way that wouldn't insult him outright.

"How? Just _look_ at you."

Claude looked down. He was himself.

"You're stunning," said Sylvain.

"You're overdoing it," replied Claude.

"_You're_ going to have to learn to take a compliment."

Claude dodged it neatly, slipping by it like an eel. "_You're_ avoiding the topic."

Sylvain grinned broadly. "Given the topic, I thought I was doing you a favour."

This wasn't how this was supposed to go. This wasn't how he was supposed to feel. "You know, you don't need to flatter me to get in my bed."

Sylvain feigned surprise. "I don't?"

"You don't."

"And yet I've never so much as seen the inside of your room."

"I'm shy," said Claude.

The more Sylvain asked, the more reasonable it seemed. Slinking around like this would get them caught one day, not to mention the inconveniences of weather and environment. A bedroom offered myriad comforts. To spread Sylvain on his bed would be a heady conquest.

He ran his fingers through Sylvain's hair and Sylvain leaned into his hand, eyes half-lidded, waiting. "You're shy, huh?"

But the dorm room was filled with him, with all of Claude's thoughts and the ghosts of his movements, the echoes of his words. All of his hoarded books traced back lines of his curiosity and led unerringly towards his future plans to anyone with the eyes to see it. The way his body contained his every strength and weakness and revealed them in ways he couldn't control. Every scar a story.

And maybe Sylvain was an idiot and maybe he didn't care, but then again maybe he did. Claude had learned the dangers of underestimating people very young. Some things had to remain off-limits.

"Yeah, I'm shy," he said, and pulled Sylvain's head to his.

*

Everything was still pleasantly incoherent as Sylvain made his way back to the real world again. He was in a fantastic mood.

Ingrid was not in a fantastic mood.

She leapt out like an ambush and his legs almost gave way under him - they might have, if she hadn’t grabbed him by the collar of his uniform and dragged him back into the shadows where she’d been waiting.

“Holy-!”

“What are you _doing_?” she demanded.

“Taking a walk!”

She hit him - not hard, but enough to jolt him against the wall. “Don’t pull any of that with me! What are you thinking?”

He blinked, tried to get his bearings. “I’m thinking why is my oldest friend threatening me against a wall? Ingrid, what the-?”

“Oh, please, I saw you come in.”

Nothing was occurring to him but to play dumb, so he kept on at it. “I don’t under-”

“With Claude.”

Sylvain laughed. “With Claude? Really?”

Ingrid wasn’t laughing.

The full implications of what was happening began to dawn on him. He swallowed. “Did, um. Did he see you?”

She pushed him hard. “_That’s_ your question?”

It was the only question he wanted to ask. How much had she seen? What exactly was going through her head right now?

Some questions were better left unasked.

"Did he?"

"Of course he didn't!" snapped Ingrid. "Ugh, I can't believe you! Sleeping with the enemy?"

"Actually we-"

"_Don't_."

He didn't.

"I mean, I shouldn't be surprised, but still, I thought even you might have more decorum than this!"

"Maybe," said Sylvain quietly, putting his hands very carefully on Ingrid's shoulders, "we should talk about this somewhere more private."

She bristled under his hands, and he pushed her very, very carefully but firmly away from him. "You don't seem to need much in the way of privacy," she said.

"That cuts me to the quick, but I take your point. I deserved that."

There was nobody in the Blue Lions classroom at this time, so they went there, and Sylvain lit candles while Ingrid ranted at him from a bench. It was all things he'd heard before, from Dimitri or Ingrid herself, a couple of times from Dedue's eloquent, disapproving stares. He let it wash over him, until she said, "I hope you know that this is basically treason."

He couldn't stifle a laugh.

"You think it's funny?"

"I think you're taking this a little too seriously."

"Oh, because you're in control? Sylvain, he is a _genius_, and you are an _idiot_. You are not going to win this game. Whatever it is."

"There is no game," he explained. "We meet for a good time. I'm hardly telling him state secrets."

"You'd better not be!"

"Quiet."

"Tell me why I should save your skin this time."

The back corner of the classroom glowed warm with candlelight. Sylvain sat down across from her. "And what are you saving me from, exactly?"

"Claude von Riegan, viper in human form?" Her eyes shone in the yellow light, their green different, set in the pale subtleties of her colouring, than Claude's eyes.

"Viper!"

"Don't laugh! He's even poisonous! Annette's seen him mixing up who knows what in the labs."

"You really need to get your head out of those books, Ingrid."

"He's using you," she said flatly.

"Um, yes, we are using each other. That's the deal and I for one am pretty pleased with how it's been working out for me."

"Why tactics?" she asked.

"What are you talking about?"

"Do you know what tipped me off? You paying attention in tactics class. You've never cared before. Why now?"

Sylvain stretched out on the bench and yawned. "What does this-? Is this supposed to be his big master plan? He's, what, going to use his evil influence to make me into a better tactician?" He shook his head. "I know you don't like the guy, but even you have to admit how crazy that sounds."

Ingrid was like stone. Not the faintest flicker of a smile. "Then why?"

"What happened last month shook me up," said Sylvain, and it was true. He didn't have to mention Claude's advice. Claude's advice was the logical conclusion, and Sylvain would have come to it himself sooner or later.

That softened Ingrid up, all right. "That wasn't your fault."

"It was, and I know it was. I don't want it to happen again on my account, and this is where I start making sure it doesn't."

"Felix only yelled at you like that because he cares."

"I know," said Sylvain, skirting too close to _don't think about it_ territory. "It wasn't that, it was that he threw himself in- He- Look, I care too, you know?"

"I know." She sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm just being paranoid."

"A little," he said, but fondly. He was still in a good mood, after all, and the two of them alone in the soft light was nice, like their lives before the Academy.

"I feel really stupid saying this," said Ingrid, "and if you ever tell anyone I did I'll deny it, but I don't want to see you get hurt."

He laughed. "I didn't know you cared."

"Call it house pride," she said dryly.

"Don't worry," he assured her with a wink. "If he breaks my heart, I'll let you comfort me."


	9. Cruel Summer

It was a miracle they even held the Battle of the Eagle and Lion that year, but somehow it all came together. Sylvain found himself in line with the others to have his weapons treated ("Can't have you little darlings killing your future heads of state by accident," drawled Professor Manuela, overlooking the proceedings from a chair), wondering how they were here, how this game was supposed to fit in with their regular reality of encountering things he'd rather not believe existed.

Not that this was particularly mundane, game or not. Sylvain had never been this far south before. The weather had obliged them, all clear skies and sun. He wondered if Claude was disappointed.

"Stick to the plan," murmured Dimitri. "We will prevail."

"Try not to get too excited," said Felix coldly.

"As if he isn't," Ingrid said, so quietly nobody but Sylvain heard.

"He's been building up grudges for weeks," Sylvain replied, "just to make sure he enjoys it more."

Ingrid didn't quite manage to stifle her giggle, snorting instead, and kicking him lightly.

Felix glared, but his eyes flashed with the thrill of the fight. He was going to enjoy himself whatever they said.

Professor Hanneman took Sylvain's lance briskly and gave it a quick look-over, weighing it, peering down the shaft, prodding the point with the pad of his finger.

"Nothing untoward," he said to himself.

"What are you expecting to find, Professor?" Dimitri asked.

"Oh, not really _expecting_," said Hanneman. He put the lance down and held out his hand for Felix's sword. Felix offered it hilt-first. "Trick blades, hollow points, barbed arrows, solid cores in the lances, all kinds of magic used all kinds of ways…" He looked sternly over his glasses and Felix begrudgingly gave up his sword. “I’ve seen it all. You students can always surprise me.”

“Who would do such a thing?” asked Mercedes.

“Not the Blue Lions,” said Annette. “Right, Professor Hanneman?”

“You’d be surprised, Miss Annette,” said Professor Hanneman. He unsheathed Felix’s sword and put his ear to the blade. “Every house has dishonoured itself. Not this year though, so far. A very well-behaved year.”

“Make sure you check the Golden Deer extra carefully,” said Ingrid neutrally.

“Look at you and your friendly house rivalry,” said Sylvain.

She gave him a look.

Sylvain didn’t recognise the spell Professor Hanneman used on the weapons. If he’d ever paid more attention then maybe he would have been able to tell what it was doing and how, but as things stood he knew only as much as the others - bar Annette, who was watching the movements of Professor Hanneman’s hands as though her life depended on it.

“There,” said Professor Hanneman. “Manuela, would you like to give the speech or should I?”

“You’d better take this one,” said Professor Manuela sweetly. “I’d only tell it wrong again.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” But his blue eyes narrowed in distaste. “Very well. Byleth, you’ve been informed of the rules already, I believe.”

They all knew the rules. All month the chatter among the students had been _my father this_ and _my grandmother that_ and _my aunt said_, as though they were all condemned to carry their families’ legacies of the Battle of the Eagle and Lion even before it happened, as though it was one long mock-war through the generations. And they wouldn’t be free even after it was done. The courts and noble halls of every House in Fódlan echoed with stories of mock-glories and mock-defeats on this mock-battlefield, as though nobody had ever done anything of note since. _Let my life be more interesting than that_, Sylvain thought.

“There’s no need to hold back, as I know will be the first question you want to ask,” said Professor Hanneman, his moustache bristling. “Hit each other as hard as you want. It may hurt, but you won’t be able to damage each other too much. And before you ask, no, you are not stronger than my magic. There’s absolutely no chance that the spell will fail. No, you are not an exception. There are no ‘what ifs’. There are no ‘buts’. Did I cover everything?”

Felix’s angry gaze accepted the challenge.

_At least he’s on my side._

“Any touch by a weapon that would in ordinary circumstances be damaging or fatal will leave a mark the colour of the house the weapon came from, so we can keep track of the score. You are out when you’re hit hard enough to leave a coloured mark within the designated areas on your armour. No exceptions. My magic will know if you try to get around it.”

“Wait, we’re going to get hit?” asked Ashe in sudden alarm.

“Mock-hit,” said Sylvain.

“But-”

“You’ll only mock-die. It’ll really hurt, though.”

“What is wrong with you?” growled Ingrid.

“Don’t worry, Ashe,” added Mercedes. “That’s what I’m here for!”

“The winning house will be decided by number of overall wins,” said Professor Hanneman. “The last house standing will not necessarily be the victor. Once the winner is decided, no appeals are possible. And those are the rules.”

“Hanneman, dear, you forgot the most important one,” said Professor Manuela, lounging on her chair.

“I assure you I did not-”

“Have fun, kids,” she said.

“That’s hardly-”

“Now shoo and get into position. I’m expecting to see a show.”

Byleth wisely ushered them away, newly-enchanted weapons in hand, while the other two bickered to themselves.

If Sylvain tried hard he could feel it, something subtly different in the lance he carried. The weight was the same, and the balance, but there was something new there regardless.

The three house armies would begin from pre-ordained places decided by tradition, and Gronder Field was so wide that Sylvain couldn’t see any sign of the others. Somewhere was Claude, perhaps testing the pull of his bow, spinning an arrow restlessly in his hand, thinking of maps and terrain and formations. Hidden and waiting, his thoughts known only to himself.

If Ingrid could see into Sylvain’s thoughts she’d have had him strung up for treason.

“It’ll be weird facing you at the mock-battle,” he’d said the last time they’d met, and Claude had only smiled and kissed the inside of Sylvain’s wrist, hot mouth on cool skin.

“You’d better be careful. I know all your weaknesses.”

*

All he had to do was what he was told.

The Lions headed out aggressively into the field, eyes on the prize, ready to take on both the Deer and Eagles. The Deer weren’t rising to the bait, holding strong and hanging back, trying to draw the others in to them with regular volleys of arrows.

That was about as far as Sylvain got before the three armies clashed and everything was chaos.

Dimitri was roaring out commands - "Hold the Deer off and break the Eagles' forward momentum! Stay low! Ashe, covering fire!" - and Byleth was translating his wishes to action like a seasoned general. Get the archers off their backs and they could bring all the force of the Blue Lions to bear on them, but Claude wasn't going to let them carry the victory so easily. Hilda was holding one flank, axe whirling with lazy savagery or savage laziness - Sylvain couldn't decide - and Raphael the other, booming laughter. Lysithea was busy sowing her own particular strain of nightmares among the Eagles.

A fireball scattered them.

"Hold!" bellowed Dimitri. "Not yet!"

"When the hell did he learn how to do that?" muttered Sylvain, heart pounding, avoiding the singed grass.

Dedue returned an axe in the direction of the fire, and was rewarded with a refined yelp of pain.

Another arrow whistled into them and took another couple of years off Sylvain's life. He froze for a second and watched it quiver at his feet.

"Sylvain!"

He whirled around. "Felix, no, stay-!"

Too late - Felix had already tackled him to the ground as another arrow hissed past.

Sylvain clambered to his feet, dragging Felix up with him. "It's a mock-battle!" he yelled. "_I'm not going to die!_"

A soft "Oh!" cut through the moment. They spun around to see Mercedes, staring down at the golden mark on her side.

"You were supposed to be covering her!" groaned Sylvain.

Mercedes only smiled. "Don't look so sad, Felix. It'll be all right. I'll see you when it's over."

Felix's blood was up by then. Sylvain could see it, that quiet, maddened look in his eye. He charged right into the Deer, against all of Dimitri's pleas for him to hold position.

The formation fell apart.

Sylvain may not have had much of a head for tactics but he wasn't stupid - he recognised his own careless words to Claude in this.

_If it wasn't for Mercedes keeping an eye on him sometimes…_

_The angrier he gets, the more invincible he thinks he is._

Everything became icily clear.

Ingrid was right.

The Black Eagles had scented blood and their vanguard was heading right for them.

Byleth was doing her best in the madness, but there was only so much that could be done.

Sylvain had never thought of himself as someone who had enemies until he saw the look in Dorothea's eyes as she spotted him in the melee. He should not have asked her to dinner. She raised her hands, crackling with electric sparks. He should not have made eyes at the pretty lute player as they danced. He braced himself, lance gripped tightly. He should not-

Something barrelled into him, and then Dorothea gave an indignant cry.

Sylvain rolled on the grass, using the shaft of his lance like a staff to fend off this new attacker. He fought to get the point in reach, but there wasn't enough space.

"Hey."

Claude put his hands on Sylvain's and pushed down with all his weight on the lance shaft, pinning Sylvain to the ground. "Stay low."

Claude had saved him.

_Ingrid was wrong._

Claude sat up, straddling Sylvain, and his bowstring twanged so hard Sylvain could feel the vibration pressing against his ears.

This time Dorothea sounded really annoyed.

"That takes care of that." Then he was looking back down at Sylvain, and then he was so close he- and then they were kissing, and Sylvain closed his eyes, exhilarated by the daring, light-headed with the closeness of the call.

He didn't see the arrow in Claude's hand.

His eyes opened wide with shock.

"Sorry," whispered Claude.

*

Sylvain couldn't see much from the sidelines, but he squinted at the distant brawl anyway just so he wouldn't notice Dorothea glaring daggers at him.

"That looked painful," said Mercedes sympathetically, sitting beside him.

"Oh, it wasn't so bad. Not like being stabbed, not really. Just like being jabbed really hard with a stick."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know. I was hoping we could pretend it was what you meant."

She leaned over and squeezed his hand. "Of course."

They watched, or at least Sylvain pretended to, a while longer.

"Right under the ribcage, too," said Mercedes. "He knew what he was doing."

Sylvain's hand went to his chest. "That's a very...murderous observation."

"Oh, you pick up a lot of anatomy in Faith. If you want, I could explain exactly what-"

"No, that's fine." He rubbed at the mark.

"If you want, I can give you a little…?" She inclined her head.

"Nah," replied Sylvain. "I think I'll keep it. I deserve the lesson."

"If you're sure."

"Thanks anyway."

She didn't say anything else, but there was that air about her that only Mercedes had, of knowing something wonderful that nobody else did, and waiting for the right time to share it. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. Better than pity, perhaps, but how much better?

"Everyone saw, didn't they?" he asked as the number of defeated students on the sidelines increased.

"I'm afraid so," said Mercedes. "I'm sure it'll be fine, though."

She didn't know that he'd inadvertently betrayed her to the Deer. He could never talk about it. She must never know what he'd done. None of them could know. Just say it was as much of a surprise to him as them, play it off Claude's unpredictability. Easy.

"He would have gone for me anyway," said Mercedes conversationally. "He's a smart boy."

Sylvain almost choked.

Mercedes was leaning forward, trying to get a better view. "Oh, I think this is it. Let's hope the Goddess is favouring us!"

Sylvain had never felt so unfavoured in his life.


	10. Catch

Dimitri wouldn't meet his eye in the weeks after the battle. Sylvain would almost have preferred one of the old lectures to this buttoned-up evasion. Dedue watched him like a hawk, though, and honestly that was no better.

Ingrid at least refrained from saying she'd told him so, probably (correctly) assuming that his very public betrayal would have driven the point home. Felix simply wasn't talking to him at all. Which could, admittedly, have just been Felix being Felix, but Sylvain was hardly going to show his face in the training ground and ask him whether he was angry.

He kept his head down, and once he stopped looking for Claude, Claude ceased to appear.

He would never have admitted it, but it was kind of nice, these days, to be sent out to do menial monastery work. He could forget for a while that he was in the Officer's Academy and dream up a simpler, more rustic existence. For a few brief hours he could be Sylvain, humble woodcutter, someone who could conceivably end up marrying someone like Valerie or Dora or any one of the shamefully countless girls he'd met while he was here. He knew, deep down, that he wouldn't enjoy being a commoner or a monk or a monastery dogsbody, but it felt good to indulge himself in this wallow for a while.

Summer was beginning to fade from the mountain forests around Garreg Mach already, though the wolves he caught brief glimpses of weren't quite red yet. Insects called from the undergrowth and sketched bright, erratic flights in the shafts of low sunlight.

A twig snapped, and Sylvain paused, adjusting his grip on the javelin in his hand.

A bird gave a laughing call, and he batted away a cloud of midges that blew close to his face.

Another twig snap.

Hopefully not a wolf, red or otherwise.

Today he was Sylvain the simple hunter. He took a stealthy step, javelin at his shoulder, testing the ground before putting his weight down, avoiding flaky rotting logs and tangles of weeds, keeping to the soft-piled pine needles.

Something moved.

Sylvain braced the javelin to throw. Breath held.

A bush rustled.

His aim was clear.

Claude emerged.

Sylvain let out his breath in a sigh. Those same green eyes, that same easy stance, lips always just about to curve into that same secret smile.

Sylvain hated how it went right to his soul. Right to the core of him. He would deal with the discomfort and not give Claude anything to analyse by adjusting himself. They weren't doing this anymore. The sooner his body understood that, the better for everyone.

"You should be careful, deer," he said instead. "That's how hunting accidents happen."

Claude smiled as though butter wouldn't melt, making no attempt to get out of Sylvain's line of sight. "Thanks for the warning. And what are you hunting?"

Sylvain smiled back, wolfishly. "Venison."

Claude raised his eyebrows very slightly. Second-guessing himself. A few months ago Sylvain wouldn't have noticed.

He hadn't decided whether or not he was joking yet. Not that he'd throw a javelin at Claude, and Claude, standing bold as a forest spirit in front of him, knew it, but he might mean to.

"So what brings you out here? Is there anything else I can help you with?" He didn't wear Dorothea's brand of sarcastic politeness particularly well, but it got his point across.

Claude watched him, careful but not wary. "No," he said eventually.

"Then what?"

"I haven't seen you around in a while."

Sylvain gave him a look of exaggerated surprise. _Really? How very mysterious._

"I wanted to."

The surprise turned wry. "Claude," he said, chiding, "you know I don't have any more national secrets to give you."

"Sylvain." Claude mirrored his tone. "You know that's not what I want."

_We're not doing this anymore._

He wouldn’t ask what Claude wanted. He wouldn’t go down that road. They weren’t doing this anymore. "If you need me to introduce you to a girl or two, you know I can, but you're going to have to ask me more nicely than that."

Claude came closer, and the javelin went up.

Claude stopped where he was.

Sylvain smiled pleasantly.

Claude wasn't even carrying his bow. There was no quiver on his back. What was he doing out here?

"What do you want?" Sylvain asked at last, hating himself for asking.

"I like spending time with you. Is that so strange?"

"Not so strange," Sylvain admitted. "I am the most eligible bachelor in all of Fódlan, after all."

"Among other things."

_You don't get to make those jokes anymore._ "Watch it."

Claude nodded, conceded the point. "Look, I miss...what we had. I was wondering if we could maybe...still...have it."

"You used me."

"You used me right back!"

"You went above and beyond all agreed usage." Sylvain laughed bitterly, despite himself. "And you even _said_. You told me. You're not the good guy. You're the winning guy. And anything to win. So what now, little deer? You won."

“Now I analyse,” said Claude. “Were my methods effective? And were they worth it?”

“You got what you wanted,” said Sylvain. "I'd say it was pretty effective."

“But it wasn’t worth it,” said Claude.

_Don’t let him do this again._

“I’m not big on sacrifice as part of my strategies," Claude began

“You killed me.”

“I mock-killed you,” corrected Claude, proving that the joke was only funny when Sylvain was making it. “And I felt bad about it.”

“Go back to the monastery.”

“No. Look, victory is good, but bloodless victory is better, and that wasn’t it. In essence, I failed, according to my own principles. I’m kind of an idealist that way. Not many people know that about me.”

“Good for you. Go back.”

"I regret it. I thought I could be ruthless, but it turns out I can't do it. I can be stupid, though. I learned that all right."

Sylvain followed Claude’s movements with the point of the javelin, but Claude wasn’t so easily stopped this time. He wove left and right and the javelin point followed him until he was right in front of Sylvain and his chest was pressed against the tip.

His instincts wanted to move the javelin, but he made himself keep it in place. Let Claude move if it was uncomfortable.

Claude didn't move. “I have no agenda,” he said. “And I’d say I stand to gain nothing, but we both know that would be a lie.”

“Go back, Claude,” said Sylvain, but his husky voice wasn’t convincing anybody.

Claude only smiled roguishly. “I never did teach you to dance.”

Why was he just standing there?

Sylvain pressed the tip of the javelin against Claude’s chest, just the tiniest bit, but Claude still didn't move. He pressed himself harder against it, like the nightingale against the thorn.

The first time Claude had let himself be touched, Sylvain found himself thinking, which was absurd, but he traced a line with the javelin point nonetheless, up, snagging a little on the seam of Claude's collar, and Claude let him. Up the soft brown skin of his neck, leaving hardly a mark, just a waterlike wake that vanished in moments. Claude swallowed and Sylvain felt it in his hands through the javelin.

Sylvain smiled despite himself. "What are we doing?" he asked quietly.

"I was hoping you had an idea."

"Since when do I know anything?"

"You might be surprised," said Claude. "Do you have any idea how many back-up plans I had to come up with? Wyverns, fire, thievery, deforestation. I was disappointed in the end. It would have been beautiful. They would have told stories about it for years."

"Oh, I think stories will be told."

"They'll sing songs. Dorothea will play you in the opera."

"Oh yeah?"

"She hates playing villains. Give her a tragic hero any day."

It wasn't lost on him that Claude was positioning himself as the villain of the piece, but he didn't rise to it. "I never saw her as a britches kind of actress."

"I think she could pull it off."

"Her voice is a little high, don't you think?"

"She has a very versatile voice, actually."

Somehow the javelin had lowered itself from Claude's throat and was pointing at the ground. Sylvain let it hang loose in his hand. "A tragic love story of betrayal, huh."

"I guess so."

"Downer ending."

"Seems that way."

"I don't know if I want it to end like that," said Sylvain. "It wouldn't be very in character."

"All your relationships end in tragedy," Claude pointed out.

"None of them ended in cold-blooded betrayal on the battlefield, though," said Sylvain.

"None of them?"

Too late Sylvain realised what he'd said. Trust Claude to notice. Did he mean it? What if he did? Would it hurt him to do this thing he wanted so badly? Would it be worth it?

Maybe Claude was right, and that was something you could only judge after the fact.

"There was this episode," he said. "Things looked a little dicey."

"How did it end?" Claude asked softly.

Sylvain loved the thrill of improvisation well done, but once the thrill was gone, what was left? “I don’t know yet,” he said. “The guy gave me some time to figure it out.”

Claude nodded. “I see. Sensible guy.”

“It was always one of his best features.”

“Looks like it’s time for me to head back to the monastery anyway. I’ll see you around, maybe.”

“Maybe,” said Sylvain.

“If I don’t see you, be careful in Remire, okay? I mean that.”

“Sure.”

“If I’ve taught you nothing else, I hope I taught you to be a sneaky, slippery bastard on the battlefield. Do whatever you have to.”

Sylvain smiled faintly. “Anything to win, yeah, I know.”

Claude left without a second look, and once he was gone Sylvain hurled the javelin into a tree trunk. Birds clattered away, whistling alarm calls, the ivy leaves rustled like a rainshower, and any deer within about a mile would have ghosted away into nothingness. He watched the javelin vibrate in impotent fury.

He was used to chasing pleasure, and not used to doing the smart thing, so maybe doing the smart thing was supposed to feel this terrible. No wonder the rest of them were always so miserable.


	11. Do You Feel It?

News always came back before the students out on mission did.

Claude had been as good as his word and given Sylvain his space, but once the Blue Lions left for Remire, all bets were off. He used every trick he had to contrive to be where the news was, chatting with the Gatekeeper, running errands for the staff, bothering Cyril, listening at the stables and the kitchens and in the hush of the cathedral for any news. Why this time? He had a bad feeling, and good instincts. Not that it took much, when every knight who'd been sent out to Remire was as spooked as an unbroken wyvern.

And the news that did trickle in was bad.

The rain was pouring down the day they came back, but Claude loitered in the stables anyway, looking just busy enough that he could get away with it if the situation looked unwelcome. Perhaps it was breaking his promise, but he needed to see Sylvain back. After that he'd keep his distance not bother him again, whatever Sylvain asked of him. Just so long as he was back.

Claude was hanging a hay net in a horse stall, when he heard the sound of voices and hooves on the stones outside.

“You heard him, right?”

“What are you trying to say?”

“It was just… I’ve never heard him like that before.”

“Well, I’ve never seen anything like that before. Is it any surprise he lost his composure?”

“No, you’re right.”

Sylvain and Ingrid. Claude waited in the stall, listening for the creak of tack and boots on the flagstones.

“Are you going to do anything tonight?” Ingrid asked. “I heard Mercedes was thinking of baking as much as the kitchens would allow and holding an open table in the dining hall.”

“How can anyone think about eating right now?”

“You know her. Sugar’s good for the soul, and all.”

“I guess I know where you’ll be tonight, then. Stuffing your face.”

“After a long hot bath. See if I can scrub myself clean again.”

“Goddess, a bath sounds good.”

“Doesn’t it? Come on, hurry up, we’ll catch our death out here. Get the horses in. This sweetheart needs to get under cover while her feathers are still oiled.”

Claude looked at the shaggy grey horse in the stall with him and put his finger to his lips. The horse blinked. Not that it made any difference - he could already hear Ingrid talking to all the horses in their stalls in turn, closer and closer. He could hide ineptly behind the hay net. Or behind the horse. He settled for looking busy instead.

“Well, aren’t you looking better?” she said to the horse in the stall next to his. “You’ll be back out on the field in no time. And- oh, looks like _you_ have a parasite.”

Claude looked up from his pretend-busyness. “Pleasure to see you, Ingrid, as always.”

“Oh, don’t bother.”

“Still can’t bring yourself to be polite?”

“Still haven’t developed a moral compass?” Ingrid hissed at him. She glanced somewhere to the side, where Claude’s view was obstructed by the stable walls, where Sylvain must be. “I can’t believe you have the nerve to be hanging around here after what you did.”

“That’s between me and him,” said Claude, still light and courteous.

“It was between you and him until you hurt him. Now I’m involved.” She flicked wet hair over her shoulder.

"I never meant - I know, please hear me out. Do you think I meant for things to get this far? I didn't even think it would work. It was a practical joke, and I thought maybe I'd see how far I could take it." It was easy to talk to Ingrid. No agenda, no pretence, not even of liking him. It would have been clever if it was deliberate; it drew him into the same straight-talking space. "Do you think I meant to end up here, thinking about him constantly? Worried about him every time he leaves to go on mission?" _Do you have any idea how inconvenient this is for me?_ he almost said, but if there was one way to get Ingrid's back up it was to insult her friends.

"Nobody ever knows what you mean," retorted Ingrid. "Nobody ever knows what's really on your mind or what you're thinking. That's why nobody can trust you."

Claude let it slide right off. "I just wanted to know he was home."

"He's home."

"Thank you."

She kept looking out of the corner of her eye, transparently making sure Sylvain hadn't noticed that she was having an angrier than usual conversation through the stable door. It made Claude itch with the urge to draw attention to himself to spite her.

"He doesn't need this right now," she said quietly, "and honestly, neither do I."

_I'm sure he's glad to have you around to tell him what he needs._ He swallowed the words. He didn't need to make an enemy out of Ingrid.

And look at it from her side - she was completely in the right.

"He's lucky to have you as a friend," he said, and half-meant it.

Her jaw tensed, and she led her pegasus away.

He heard her call from the other side of the stable yard. "Sylvain, are you coming?"

"Yeah, give me a sec."

Claude waited until he heard footsteps, and then leaned casually over the stable door, into the rain. He looked in the direction Ingrid had been glancing in and there he was, Sylvain, his hair dark and plastered to his face. He readied himself to pull back into the stall and out of sight.

He didn't even know if-

Sylvain ran to him.

Almost pulled him over the stable door, shivering with cold, soaking rainwater into Claude's clothes, smelling of sweat and horse and rain.

"Tell me you were waiting."

"I was waiting."

"Tell me you know a place."

"I know a place."

*

Claude always knew a place.

He didn't mention Ingrid, who would guess immediately what was going on, and he didn't mention what he'd heard them talking about. He didn't mention the rumours he'd heard, and when Sylvain said, once the door was closed and they were in pitch darkness, that he didn't want to talk about it, Claude took him at his word.

He didn’t ask why the change of heart, but Sylvain told him anyway.

“I was going to make you wait forever,” murmured Sylvain, foreheads pressed together, hand at the back of Claude’s head. “But we don’t have time for that. These aren’t- these aren’t normal times. It just seemed so _stupid_ to be worrying about this when out there people are... They're...”

“Leave it outside,” said Claude, thinking of everything he'd heard about Remire. “We’re in here. Just us.” _For now. Unless things get worse. Unless it comes in._

Sylvain's hands were at his neck and he froze, though he knew the tightness of his collar was a button being undone, the same as he'd undone Sylvain's dozens of times before.

_You have nothing to hide._

It was a test, and Claude submitted to it.

The air was cold and Sylvain's hands were cold. His instinctive misgivings were cold inside him, but he made himself be still.

"I'm sorry for making you wait," Sylvain whispered.

"I deserved it."

"You're so warm."

"I aim to please."

"Something to come home to."

_For now_, thought Claude, always five steps ahead. _Until we graduate._

"Talk to me," said Sylvain.

"About what?"

"Anything. Whatever you want. I don't want to think. I don't want to talk. If it's too quiet I'll just try and fill it."

"I wasn't going to say anything, but it's a particularly bad habit of yours." Was it okay to say things like that yet? Must have been.

_So say something. You have nothing to hide, right?_

But what was he if not this skin, this flesh, these thoughts and everything he'd ever learned? Was he supposed to just give that away?

"I don't know what to say."

"That's a first. Come on, say anything. What you had for breakfast, how the weather's been, I don't care."

Think of all the things Sylvain had given away, freely. His words and his body, over and over.

Claude's breath caught.

"Sorry, are my hands cold?"

He forced himself not to squirm away. "Your hands are literally icicles."

"I keep forgetting you're a soft southern dukeling."

"Hardly southern."

"Everywhere's south of Gautier."

It wasn't really the cold. It was the sounds his body wanted to make. It was the way he was moving despite himself. _Keep it. Under. Control._

Even the rainwater dripping from Sylvain's hair made him bite down on his gasps. Small explosions of cold on his skin, unpredictable.

"Don't fight it."

"_Fight_?” The word burst out of him with a shudder. “Do you have any idea how much I'm giving you?" He couldn't keep his voice level.

"You're holding back."

"Do you want the moon while I'm at it?"

"I wouldn't say no. You know. If you're offering."

Claude's back arched violently as Sylvain moved down his body.

"Come on, say something." There was a smile in Sylvain’s voice now. He was enjoying himself in a way that Claude was used to enjoying himself.

_You want the moon?_ he thought. _Here you go._

"Okay,” he said, breathy and uneven. “Here’s something for you. I'm half-Almyran."

Sylvain lifted his head. "You're what?"

Claude took advantage of the chance to catch his breath. "Remember when you said you'd heard my father was - how did you put it? 'Really something'? He rules Almyra."

"Which would explain that," said Sylvain faintly. "Is this a joke?"

"It's a secret, from me to you. Do what you want with it."

"What am I supposed to-? Almyran? Like Cyril? But aren't you-? Don't the Alliance dukes war with Almyra like all the time?"

"Yep."

"To which one?"

"All of them."

"What happens when you inherit both?"

"I don't think I can." Claude lay back on the desk, and Sylvain stretched out beside him. The age-old question. Renounce Almyra or abandon the Alliance to the Gloucesters? Or unite them? Or, more likely, get ousted from both? Luckily not something he had to think about just yet.

"Have you ever been?"

"I grew up there. That's why I popped up out of nowhere to fill in as my grandfather's heir."

"What do you mean, popped up out of nowhere?"

"Do you know nothing about politics?" Claude teased. How refreshing, though, that he didn't know. "You must have heard the rumours about me."

"Yeah, where I'm from we have our own foreign menace. I'm happy to leave you guys to deal with each other."

"Considerate of you."

"Do you miss Almyra?"

"Sometimes." Such a tiny thing had turned the whole course of his life. Well, not that a death was so tiny, but if not for that one thing he'd still be there.

"What was it like?"

Guilt and relief, and Claude was the master of his body once more. Guilt that he felt so relieved, as though he'd escaped something. Almyra was a rock in his throat, but at least it was his to control. As intense as he wanted it to be. He wasn't quite ready to relinquish his hold over himself yet.

"Simpler. And more complicated, too. The nights were cold all through the year. The people could be blunt and impatient, but maybe that was just to me. I was never a particularly easy kid. But you've never seen anyone ride a wyvern like a real Almyran rider. The masters would live among wyvern colonies in the mountains in summer, and only come back to people when the wyverns flew south. I never did manage to find out what they did out there, or what they learned. They'd never have let an outsider like me in on any of that."

"Tell me everything."

So Claude did, everything he remembered, spinning it out like the lady telling stories to avoid her execution in the morning, which was ridiculous, but he'd already prised open the steel trap of his innermost self more than he ever had for anyone else. It would have to be enough for now. Just give him time and he'd open up the rest of the way. Not now. Not yet. It was too much, too soon.

"Will you ever go back?" Sylvain asked.

"I don't know."

"Would you take me if you did?"

"To Almyra?"

"Yeah. I mean, haven't you ever wanted to just leave here and go somewhere things aren't so crazy?"

It was hard to think of Almyra as somewhere that wasn't crazy, given everyone's reactions to perfectly normal anecdotes of his childhood and upbringing. "You think we should run away?"

"Why not? Raid the kitchens, steal a couple of horses… How many people can a wyvern sit?"

"Sounds easy," said Claude. "All we have to do is go."

"Leave all this behind." There was something yearning in Sylvain's voice. He needed this.

So Claude let him have it. He made them a future in words, a life sketched out in the air; the wayward prince and his exotic Fódlan lover.

"You make it sound real," said Sylvain.

This was part of the game too. This was allowed. "Of course it’s real," said Claude. "I'll be at your door at midnight. Pack your things."

*

If Sylvain waited up for him, he never mentioned it.

*

Back to normal life.

Back to Sylvain stealing moments with Claude and dozing somewhat less through tactics class. Ingrid didn’t approve but he didn’t care. They didn’t have time to waste on drama. The slow winter months were stirred with urgency. The whole monastery was restless.

The weather grew colder and the atmosphere grew somehow tenser. Every now and then in a skirmish or on a mission Dimitri would shout something bloodcurdling, in a voice that stopped them all dead. They’d look one to the other as if to ask, _Did you hear that?_ but none of them ever spoke of it afterwards. It felt treasonous to do so. Disloyal.

Ever closer calls, ever closer enemies. The shadows within Garreg Mach's walls became more than shadows.

They never did get a new librarian.

Captain Jeralt's old office was cleared out.

Everyone was different, even the professor, whose main distinguishing feature had always been that emotionless silence that spoke of changelessness. The winter looked to be a bad one. The houses withdrew into themselves.

But then Sylvain would catch Claude's eye, through the doorway of the Golden Deer classroom or across the walled gardens, and they'd end up in a remote dusty corner somewhere, among shattered barrels and crates, empty grain sacks, in the wet heat of the greenhouse at night. Claude always knew a place. Somewhere empty, secluded. Different each time. They planned out a hundred escapes to Almyra. Sylvain dreamt of wyverns and Claude.

He knew to get what he could from each moment. He knew how this worked. Next time they might neither of them be at Garreg Mach any more, or the storm might finally have broken. Next time one or both of them might be dead.

He didn't know what was coming, but he was beginning to feel as though he was living on borrowed time. Life at Garreg Mach began to feel dreamlike and unreal. He grew steadily convinced that none of them were supposed to be here, and it was only through some miracle that they still were, mucking out stables and hauling vegetable sacks to the kitchen, playing at fighting in the training grounds while outside the border territories were beginning to harden in instinctive, unfocused suspicion. His own letters from home reflected the change, though border raids from Sreng remained small-scale and scattered. It was just a feeling, but it was everywhere.

There was less and less time for kissing in the dark.

*

When the Flame Emperor's mask shattered under Dimitri's heel, not even Claude, with all of his contingency plans, could have guessed what lay beneath, or what lay ahead.


	12. Stay Alive

Edelgard left the monastery, taking the Black Eagle house with her.

There was a part of Claude, a scheming, theoretical part, that was almost enjoying himself. Even as he lost sleep writing letters upon letters, calculating the number of troops he could rely on in every configuration of support and betrayal, drawing and redrawing borders to cover every development he could think of, part of him was amazed that all of his practice was finally being put to use. Most of him was horrified, but that small inhuman part of him felt honoured to be here, now.

Edelgard’s hand had been forced, certainly, but the real question was what advantage had they gained by forcing her? How much of _her_ advantage had they undermined? They had to assume the answer was little or none. She wouldn't put herself in a position where she might be unmasked without having all of her ducks in a row.  


When news reached Garreg Mach that she'd been crowned Emperor, Claude burned a heap of unsent letters and knew he'd been right to assume the worst.

How he would fare in a real war against either of the other two house leaders was a thought experiment he'd indulged in often during the year, of course, but now they were here he found himself at an unexpected loss. He'd always counted on the support of the Kingdom. He'd never factored into his strategy that Dimitri would lose his mind. The Blue Lions, an insular house at the best of times, had pulled in tighter than ever and shut out the rest of the world completely.

When he passed Sylvain in the hall, he felt distant, even as they brushed by one another, even as their hands reached unerringly to give a soft squeeze of fingers and then let go to continue on their separate paths. He knew when things had been bad because Sylvain would murmur, "Let's go tonight." To Almyra, he meant. Away from all this. Claude would reply, "Pick you up at midnight," and the colour would come back into Sylvain's face for just a moment. It helped, Claude thought, but less and less each time.

Sylvain mentioned their escape more and more as the days crawled by. How could Claude not use him as a weathervane for the state of the Blue Lions? It was everything he had promised himself he wouldn't do, but that was a school's mock-battle and this was war. His self-reproach was academic. He didn't regret it. Didn't think twice. It was an instinct, and thank all the deities of every land that it was an instinct, because he needed to know that the Lions were falling apart and he couldn't rely on Faerghus as an ally. Thank Sylvain for not learning his lesson and thank himself for being unable to become a better person.

What would be the best thing, he thought yet again, as he waited at the marketplace, blowing on his hands in the chill, would be if he could reach into a map of the Alliance like the hand of the Goddess, pick up the Gloucester and Goneril territories and swap them, pouring earth from his hands to fill the holes he'd left.

Let Gloucester keep its inflated sense of its own importance as the holders of the border against the Almyran threat, and let Holst of Goneril be his strong, reliable defence against the Adrestian Empire. It would mean having to work through Hilda, but he'd already thought that through.

Pros:  
\- Hilda was fundamentally unpolitical and harboured approximately zero ambitions to head the Alliance.  
\- Close relation to Holst, one of his most valuable allies, receiving frequent letters from him and having his complete trust.

Cons:  
\- Hilda was incredibly lazy and paid no attention to anything she didn't care about - including politics.  
\- Most of her letters from Holst were just Holst making sure she wasn't seeing any boys he'd disapprove of.

Hilda would have been easy to handle, though. The only obstacle was Claude's lack of godlike powers, which was why he was here instead, staking out the merchant Lorenz got his favourite tea leaves from.

Ideally Claude would have waited for Lorenz to run out and just happened to be hanging around the marketplace at the same time as his resupply run, but these weren't ideal times. He'd resorted to the desperate measures of simply emptying Lorenz's stash. He didn't have days to waste in waiting for Lorenz to find people he regarded highly enough to share his best tea with (not many of those now that the Eagles had flown - and wasn't that a worrying sign, thought the tactician in Claude's mind, while the Golden Deer house leader in him countered with the innocence of a shared fondness for expensive tea among wealthy schoolmates).

The merchant from the eastern territories was setting up, swatting sleeping cats off his table. "You wouldn't believe the time I had coming here today," he said.

A cat hissed at him and bristled its fur.

"You know," said the southern merchant, "I think I would. The roads are terrible lately."

"I thought the schoolkids were supposed to have sorted all that for us," grumbled the eastern merchant.

The southern merchant shushed him and inclined his head at where Claude sat in the corner of the walls, rubbing his hands together. Claude grinned and waved amiably.

"What, am I going to offend him? I can pretend it's all sunshine and pegasi out there but that won't stop the shortages that are coming."

Claude's ears pricked up. "Are you having supply trouble?"

The merchant didn't look particularly happy to have been overheard. "We will be soon."

"Look, I'm sorry but I have to ask," said the southern merchant to Claude. "You've been sitting there for half an hour now, and you must be freezing. Are you actually planning on buying anything?"

"I'm afraid not," said Claude. "Just waiting for someone. I guarantee he's looking to buy, though."

The cat leapt from the eastern merchant's table and streaked under Claude's chair.

"Oh, yeah? And what's he looking for?"

"Tea."

"Not coffee?" asked the southern merchant hopefully.

Claude shook his head apologetically.

"What kind?" asked the eastern merchant. "I have crescent moon, saints, rose blend, some here that says it's blended with pieces of dried noa fruit, I lost the label for this one but it smells nice and citrusy…"

"Oh," added the southern merchant, "I know I had a box of first flush with honeycomb and angelica somewhere. Let me dig it out."

"Does he have any preferences?"

Claude knew all of Lorenz's tea preferences, of course - you never knew what kind of information would come in useful - but he only smiled. "He has exotic taste and deep pockets," he said. "A tip from me to you."

The merchants looked at each other meaningfully.

The cat purred under his chair and twined about his legs as though it approved.

Claude couldn't quite bring himself to feel bad. Call it payback for all the trouble he was causing, and maybe a little preemptive revenge for whatever trouble he and his overly ambitious house would cause Claude in future.

He didn't have to wait much longer before he caught sight of that red rose bobbing down the steps and around the corner to the merchant stands. He should have at least ordered a cup of tea to keep warm, he thought too late.

He'd tried a pot of Lorenz's pilfered prized leaves, and they were fine, as tea went. Probably too subtle for his palate. He'd meant to share it with Sylvain but there had been no time. They were always missing each other these days. Still, he had the rest of the stash waiting to be returned (he wasn't a monster), and Lorenz wouldn't miss another pot's worth. He just had to wait for the right time. At some point Sylvain would have to go somewhere without Ingrid or Felix in tow, and at some point that place would have to be somewhere Claude was.

"Good day, my good men," said Lorenz to the merchants in his best 'talking to the commoners' voice. "I hope business has been treating you well."

"Don't start me on business," grumbled the eastern merchant.

"He's right, don't," added the southern merchant. "And what can we do for you today, Master Gloucester?"

The eastern merchant glanced over and caught Claude's surreptitious nod.

Comprehension dawned - they must have known Lorenz well already.

Claude gave the tiniest flourish: _a gift_.

"Show me your finest tea leaves, if you please," said Lorenz. "I know I was only here scant days ago, but I must have severely underestimated my thirst. Or misplaced the bag, somehow. Odd. Still, one mustn't complain about a chance to try some new blend! No such thing as bad luck, only serendipity, that's what I always say."

The merchants fell over themselves to show him their wares.

Claude stroked the rough-furred cat under the table and let it butt his hand with its head while Lorenz haggled and sniffed and drew out his tea selection.

Lorenz was waiting for his exotic new blend of tea leaves and citrus rind (so rare it had no name!) to be wrapped when he caught sight of Claude in his corner.

"What a surprise!" said Claude, heading off whatever witticism Lorenz was about to throw his way. "Just the man I was hoping to see!"

Lorenz's face fell. "And what brings you here?" he asked distastefully.

Claude grinned. "Must be serendipity."

"And what, pray tell, is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means we need to talk."

"What could I possibly have to say to you?"

"How are things back home?" Claude asked. There was no point in trying to deceive Lorenz. Better to wear his power openly instead, let him know where he stood. Lorenz might not respect it, but he'd understand it. "Can't be easy bordering the Adrestian Empire at a time like this."

Lorenz spluttered, gathering up his outrage, but he'd only come here to buy tea, not to play politics, and Claude had been prepared for days.

"If you need any support, then as the heir to House Riegan," (one of those beautiful phrases that made Lorenz turn as red as his rose,) "it's my duty to offer you support, should you so need it. House Gloucester is our first line of defence, after all."

"I hardly think it proper that you should take it upon yourself to conduct such high orders of business over the heads of-"

"All my paperwork's in order, Lorenz. I can show you all the signatures and seals you want." Orchestrated by himself, of course, but Lorenz didn't need to know that. "We don't have the luxury of time for formality just for the sake of it. The two of us are here, now, in the same place, and that's an advantage we can leverage. Providing we're all on the same page."

Lorenz sat very still. "Are you threatening me?"

"I wish I had the resources to threaten you," said Claude. "It'd make my life a lot easier."

"I see," said Lorenz icily.

A flash of red hair through the people; Sylvain with his back to them, making his way into town. Claude's heart skipped. The tea. He could call out. Make his excuses. He didn't want to be here walking tightropes with Lorenz, and Lorenz would obviously rather be anywhere else. It would be a mercy.

But he made himself let Sylvain go. It wasn't the time. Give him more time.

"As it is," he said, picking up where he'd left off with some difficulty, "right now the only weapon I have is reason."

*

The monastery seemed to be frozen, waiting for Edelgard to act. Sylvain felt like there was no point in lessons anymore, but at the same time this was his last chance to learn the skills that might keep him alive through whatever was coming.

He sat in the common room, wondering what to do with himself. The last letter he'd got from home was more alarming than ever.

_I'm journeying to Fhirdiad_, his father had written. _They're holding a lords' council. I'll keep you abreast of any new developments; we can't assume you'll be able to come straight home from Garreg Mach. There may be a detour or two._

A detour? What kind of errands were they planning on sending him on? He frowned at his own blank paper and the reply he had yet to write. _I'm your heir_, he wanted to say. _You can't send me off to war just like that!_ But that was it - he was the heir to Gautier, not the Margrave. Not yet. For now he was the most expendable of them. Now that Miklan _Don't think about it._

What else could he say?

_Dear Father,_

_Sure, I don't mind spending the summer break skirmishing with my old classmates. Give my regards to Mother._

_Your son,_

_Sylvain_

So tempting. _So_ tempting. But he didn’t.

Muttering from the corner distracted him. Sylvain looked up to see Dimitri there. He must have come in while Sylvain had been lost in his letter-writing, and he was alone. No Dedue.

Maybe that was a good sign, Sylvain thought, unconvinced. Maybe he was feeling more like his old self. Surely Dedue wouldn't let him roam around unaccompanied unless things were better.

"Sylvain," said Felix from the doorway.

"Felix." Sylvain made space beside him at the table and Felix sat. "What can I do for you?"

"I've got a favour to ask."

"Ask away. I can't promise anything, but asking is always free." He angled himself to keep Felix's attention away from the corner where Dimitri was.

“Will you take my shift in the stables?”

“Will I what now?” Dimitri was muttering to himself and Sylvain didn’t understand how Felix wasn’t hearing it. _Keep talking_, he thought. _Keep them from seeing each other._

“My shift. Please. I’ll owe you.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“I want to get some more training in.”

Of course he did. He had that fidgety look to him, and it was better he get it out of his system in the training ground than in the dining hall or dormitories. “Felix, if you aren’t careful you’ll just turn right into a sword yourself, and then where will we be?”

“Hilarious. Can you do it?”

Dimitri was talking about heads and killing again. “Give me more time, Father,” he was saying. “Glenn, please-”

Sylvain jumped in his seat at the mention of that name.

Felix sighed in exasperation. “What now?”

_He didn’t hear. Thank the Goddess._ “I just, uh, remembered something.”

“Whatever,” said Felix. “Name your price.”

“No, just, that…” He groped for something to get Felix out of the common room. “That book you have. I was meaning to ask to borrow it.”

“What book?”

“The one about that smith you like. Zoltan. Could I? Borrow it, I mean?”

Felix was looking at him as though he’d gone mad. “If you really want to, sure.”

“Would you mind getting it now? Just before I forget again. I'll take your shift.”

Felix got up. “Fine, whatever.”

_That’s it_, thought Sylvain. _Put it all down to crazy old Sylvain. Get out of here._ When he was gone, Sylvain went to Dimitri’s corner. “Good morning, there, Your Highness,” he said.

Dimitri looked at him with animal eyes, blue and unreadable as a snowcat’s in a Lone Moon blizzard.

Sylvain sat carefully beside him, on the very edge of the chair. “It’s a little early in the day to be talking about decapitation, don’t you think, Your Highness?”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” said Dimitri coldly. "I was talking to Glenn."

“I know,” said Sylvain carefully. “And I don’t think you should be throwing that name around where anybody can hear it, Your Highness. It’s not… I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Are you questioning me?”

_Keep this up and you won’t need to worry about being sent to war_, he thought. “No,” he said as meekly as he could manage, which wasn’t very. It sounded horribly insincere.

Luckily, Dimitri wasn’t in a state to recognise it. “Good. Your loyalty will be tested in the weeks to come.”

“I do love tests,” said Sylvain, because he was incapable of keeping his stupid mouth shut.

“Now, I have important things to discuss.”

“I’m all ears.”

Dimitri looked confused and annoyed in equal measure. “Not with _you_.”

There was no one else in the room. “I’ll be going, then,” said Sylvain as though all of this was perfectly normal.

He left Dimitri to his audience of ghosts and waited outside the common room, knowing Felix would be back any minute, and thinking he should probably warn anyone else off from going in. He got the book off Felix and managed to send him back on his merry way without letting him in sight of Dimitri. Dedue came before long, resolute and silent.

“He’s in there,” said Sylvain, relieved beyond measure to see him.

Dedue nodded and went to go in.

Sylvain caught him by the shoulder - not really trying to hold him back because what would be the point; the man was a mountain - and said, “I don’t think you should go in, though.”

“Thank you for your concern,” said Dedue, and went in anyway. He closed the door behind him.

Sylvain was supposed to be relieved of his duty now, but he hovered in the corridor, wondering what was going on inside, listening for words, raised voices, the sound of things breaking. It had been days since Edelgard had left the monastery. Dimitri was supposed to be pulling himself together, preparing himself and the Lions for what was coming. He paced, Felix’s book in his hand, his father's letter still in the common room, and worried, and waited, though he didn’t know what he was waiting for.

Claude emerged from the library and met his eyes.

Sylvain turned away and pretended he hadn’t seen.


	13. Separate Ways

Garreg Mach rang with the sounds of battle.

Claude wasn’t much of a believer in gods and holiness, but it was obscene even to him, that this place should have been invaded and blood spilt on its ancient stones. He was running out of arrows. Behind him the remaining younger students were fleeing, streaming from the quiet gardens and candlelit halls they’d known into the secret hiding places the Oghma mountains offered, and beside him was Dimitri, enraged after the failure of his duel with Edelgard and taking it out on the Imperial soldiers still unbelievably flowing up the mountain in a silver river.

The Deer and Lions still in fighting trim held the line while the evacuations went ahead, and it wasn’t enough. Claude crouched and fired again. Even he’d been surprised by the numbers Edelgard had called, and surprise made him angry.

The great white dragon that had sprung from nowhere to defend them roared and bellowed in rage and pain.

Claude fired again.

Dimitri slammed the shaft of his lance into a soldier’s face and swept it in a defensive arc as he turned and leapt on another like a wolf, kicking and slashing. He let them think they had him, and then in one bearlike movement shook them off like fleas.

_At least he’s on our side_, Claude thought, even as he knew that wasn’t true. Whatever side Dimitri was on now was his own.

A soldier charged at him to break the line. Claude reached for an arrow and found none. He spun his bow in his hands instead, bow nock out and aimed at the throat of his enemy, braced it against his arm, lunged with all of his weight.

_Bow didn’t break. Good. Don’t do that again._

He pulled arrows from bodies while he had the chance - a particular movement and feeling his time at Garreg Mach had accustomed him to - and wondered how much room he had to judge Dimitri really.

A heated skirmish broke out further down the Blue Lions side of the line, and Claude had never really seen Sylvain in action outside the mock-battles and training ground (and that rarely enough) until he saw him ride now into an Imperial formation, his horse plunging into the fray and his lance scattering the enemy.

_Careful_, he thought, heart in his mouth, and only at the last second did he remember he was here too and a target, and fired off an arrow with the speed of adrenaline alone, felling a soldier trying his luck. He shot another arrow into the scrum clamouring around Sylvain’s horse, maybe reckless and maybe useless, but all he could offer. There were too many of them.

Lysithea screamed.

For a moment, for perhaps the first time in Claude’s life, he froze, pulled between two responsibilities and with no plan to hand. Of all the games he’d ever played against himself, _What do I do when the Golden Deer and Sylvain need my help at the same time?_ had never been one of them.

And while he was frozen, Sylvain continued to struggle against the tide, and Lysithea shrieked again.

The white dragon roared and a flash of green out of the corner of his eye let him know that Byleth had abandoned her position and was running back into the monastery complex.

All of these things built up inside him, a blocked volcano straining and steaming, about to explode. He had to do something. Byleth absent. He the only remaining head of house with his wits intact. Lysithea his. Sylvain… _You know what he is_.

What would be the best outcome? How to get it? Choose. _Choose. Do something._

Something seemed to release inside him, and everything flowed once more. Time resumed.

_He’s a Lion._

Claude turned from Sylvain and ran to cover the Golden Deer as the white dragon tumbled from the sky.

*

Sylvain had never been evacuated before. All things considered, he wasn’t a fan. There was nothing to do but watch as the monstrous dragon shape reared up and took to the air over the monastery, plunging down again and again in fiery dives, and watch as nightmare-faced beasts mobbed it, and watch as its wings scattered rooftiles and every time it lost its balance stone walls crumbled beneath it. Huge and impressive as it was, sign of hope as it had been, it wasn't winning.

And then it was no longer there. He waited for it to rise and it didn't.

"Where did it go?" Ingrid asked from his side, nursing her cuts and bruises. Her face was streaked with dirt and her clothes were streaked with blood.

Sylvain shook his head. He didn't know.

"I thought… I thought we'd won."

Sylvain nodded.

"I thought His Highness would…"

"Well, he didn't." _And let's not talk about it._

The sun set early from the valley where they were hidden, sinking behind the high snowy ridges in a brief blaze of fire and rose. Everything up there seemed quiet and still. No echoes bouncing off the mountainsides, no faint avalanche rumbles from the slopes now. He and Ingrid sat on the cold ground in silence. Sylvain knew he should have been moving, keeping himself limber, but he was exhausted and stiff and all his healed wounds were aching in the cold, and all he could do was sit.

Ingrid combed her hair with her fingers, working out the worst knots, and looked up to the silhouette of what remained of Garreg Mach. "Are they gone?" she asked. "Do you think it's over?"

"Nothing's moved up there for hours."

"But they know His Highness and Claude are still somewhere. If Edelgard really wants to, what, rule Fódlan? Then she'll have to...to deal with them."

Sylvain looked around. He couldn't help it. Students and staff huddled around the valley, numb and terrified. He couldn't see Claude.

"Sylvain…"

"I'd rather you keep your opinions to yourself right now. Please."

She looked surprised, a little hurt, even. "I wasn't going to say anything like that."

"Good. Then please continue."

"I was going to say I've seen him. He's here."

Sylvain nodded. But how was he? Where was he? What was he doing? Why hadn't he come to find Sylvain?

“And, you know. Better him than Edelgard.”

Sylvain laughed. It sounded ghoulish. "You're not a girl made for telling jokes," he said fondly. "Never do it again."

She shuffled closer to him and after a hesitation rested her head on his shoulder. "I won't, don't worry."

He let himself lean against her too, her hair tickling his cheek. He felt young again.

"I wonder what we do now," said Ingrid. "Where do we go? Do you think they've occupied the monastery?"

“Not that it looks like there’s much left to occupy.”

“Don’t say that," said Ingrid sharply as the other Blue Lions came trooping up.

"Don't tell me you're napping at a time like this," came Felix's voice, heavy with disdain.

"Join us, why don't you?" said Sylvain, patting the cold stone. "The view's great."

Ingrid got to her feet. Sylvain considered following suit and decided against it.

"We can't stay here," said Annette. "Not all night."

"But it might not be safe to go back," said Mercedes.

“For one night it won’t be too bad,” said Ashe, and Sylvain wondered what kind of places Ashe had slept in for him to sound so calm about it. He never talked about that time in his life, and none of them ever asked. He was here now; he’d made it. All of his past was wiped away and the Blue Lions were too well-bred to bring it up. How naive they’d been.

"What should we do?" asked Annette.

“We'll have to go back eventually,” said Ingrid. “We have no food, no supplies, no shelter. If Dedue was here…”

But Dedue wasn’t there. He was wherever Dimitri was, and Sylvain sort of hoped he’d stay there, if it would keep Dimitri out of the way.

“The knights would fetch us if it was safe, right?” said Annette.

“They don’t know where we are. And we don’t know… how everything is up there.”

Mercedes nodded. “Then they might need us,” she said. Where there were people to help, there Mercedes would be.

“And who else is going to go?” pointed out Felix. “Look around. There’s only us.”

Sylvain looked at the people huddled in groups, the fishkeepers and greenhouse keepers and kitchen staff, the monks and priests and stablehands and all the younger students. Felix was right, he thought, as he tried to thaw out his muscles enough to creak to his feet. They were the only real choice to go.

He was just so _tired_.

They weren’t the only ones to have had the idea. Claude and the Golden Deer made their way through the valley and the howling winds to discuss venturing back. Claude looked well, all things considered, thought Sylvain, amazed that he could still think about such things. He must be in his element. But something held him back, held his tongue.

The two houses were distant but cordial. If Claude’s eyes lingered on Sylvain a moment longer than the others, it was such a little length of time that Sylvain couldn’t tell. It was as though nothing had happened between them.

“Just to be clear, I’m not trying to undermine Kingdom authority or anything,” Claude said with a broad smile. “I tried to talk to Dimitri, but-”

“We’ve all tried,” said Ingrid. She looked like she wanted to say more, something proper for the situation, but what words were there for a time like this? What words were there for what Dimitri was right now?

“There’s no point in reasoning with an animal,” said Felix with a curl of his lip. “Let him tire himself out while we do the work.”

“Felix,” hissed Ingrid, “if you don’t shut up, I swear.”

“All right, don’t worry about me. Carry on.” He stalked off. But as he did, he looked… not quite pleased with himself, but less frustrated than Sylvain had seen him in years. He’d known all along, and none of them had ever believed him, or understood. They understood now.

Claude let nothing slip of what he knew or what he thought. “So what do you think?”

“Do you think it’s all over up there?” Sylvain asked. _Talk to me. Ask me how it was. Ask me how I am._

Claude glanced up at the smoke still darkening the clouds, black against the sunset. “Impossible to say, unless we go and look.” As though he were talking to a stranger.

“That’s what we were thinking,” said Ingrid. “We can’t stay out here with no shelter.”

“I’d have thought this weather was pretty hospitable to the Lions,” said Claude, to which Ingrid bristled. “I agree, though, for what it’s worth. I was thinking we go as a recon party to see what’s going on, and send word back to the rest if it’s safe.”

“What are the chances Edelgard’s army is still up there?”

“Probably not as high as you’d think,” said Claude. “Even if the worst happened, and even given the monastery’s choice location, the way they destroyed it says they weren’t planning on hanging around. Not right now, anyway.”

“The dragon did most of the destroying,” Sylvain pointed out, crestfallen at this cold reception.

“Point stands,” said Claude. “It’s not much of a stronghold as it is now. They might come back and establish it as a base before it can be retaken, but it might be unstable now. Or they might have other plans. We did retreat pretty definitively.”

“We don't know that they managed to take it at all,” said Ingrid.

“Better to assume the worst.”

_He once told me I should smile more_, Ingrid had said. There was no sign of either of those people here in the valley. Sylvain wondered if he was the only one who hadn’t changed.

"Only one way to find out,” he said with a sigh.

“Exactly.”

“So what’s the plan?” asked Ingrid.

“Students and anyone with decent weapons experience do as big a sweep of the monastery as we can, to make sure there are no nasty surprises waiting for us.”

“And tomorrow?” asked Sylvain.

Claude shrugged. “Let’s see if we can get through today first.”

*

"Someone needs to tell His Highness what's going on," said Ingrid once Claude had gone back to organise the Deer. "And Felix, I'd really appreciate it if you'd please not go around blurting anything out about him right now."

"Do you think there's anyone within a mile of here who doesn't already know?" Felix shot back. "There's no secret left to keep. He saw to that."

"I don't care. We don't need it to spread any further than we can help."

"Maybe someone should tell him that. If you really believe a beast can rein in its urges on command."

"Shut up."

"Maybe he wants everyone to know what he is at last."

"I said _shut up_."

"I'll go," said Sylvain. It would be good to have something to do that wasn't reading into Claude's every word and glance, trying to work out what he'd done wrong. "Ingrid, organise the Lions. Felix, do as you're told."

"Try not to get killed," retorted Felix.

Sylvain winked to hide his misgivings. "Best behaviour now, okay?"

"Beware of rabid dogs too," growled Felix, which probably meant something like 'good luck'.

It wasn't that Sylvain didn't trust the others (with the exception of Felix, who he absolutely did not trust in this matter), but he'd rather they not see any more of Dimitri than they had to. He'd recognised the dread in Ingrid's eyes at the thought of speaking with him - dread tempered with a certain knightly resolve, sure, but Sylvain would rather not subject her to the experience regardless. Annette, Mercedes, Ashe, none of them needed to see this. Dimitri and Sylvain went way back. This was his responsibility. The others had borne enough.

Dimitri was muttering to himself and pacing. Sylvain only caught snatches, violent, fractured images spoken like promises. Dedue stood as Sylvain approached. Sylvain tore his eyes away from Dimitri. Doing so felt dangerous.

"We're going back," he said to Dedue. "See if the… Imperial army's gone. See what's left. Grab supplies, get out of the cold."

Dedue nodded.

"We're sending a scouting party ahead and we'll report back to let everyone know if it's safe."

He couldn't help looking back to Dimitri, still blood-spattered. His hair had fallen into his eyes but when he turned it swung out of the way and his ice-blue gaze caught Sylvain for a flash. Sylvain tensed, but Dimitri hardly seemed to see him, just kept pacing and drawing up his murderous plans.

The Blue Lions name was one of those things that Sylvain hadn't paid much mind to except to enjoy the prestige of it and co-opt the image in his personal view of himself. He'd fancied himself ferocious in his time. He'd been an idiot.

This was like being in a room with a real lion. Sylvain privately renounced all claim to the title.

"I don't know if he, uh." Sylvain's voice caught, his heart pounding in his throat.

"I will watch him," said Dedue, calm as a rock. "It's a good plan. Be careful."

"Okay. Great. Then we'll see you. Or. I don't. I. Um."

Dedue watched him patiently.

"We’ll send word," he said again, and all but fled.


	14. Tiger Teeth

It was clear from the start that the Imperial Army had not only won, but gone. The silence of the monastery was unlike anything Sylvain had ever experienced; a thick, heavy quiet like snow, but dead.

From time to time the debris would shift and the stone settle, and they'd all jump like rabbits, but there was nothing living here. They retrieved weapons from the training ground, which was oddly intact, a thick layer of stonedust untouched over everything until the students crept in and laid hands on everything.

"Don't forget Edelgard knows every corner of this monastery as well as we do," Claude had cautioned them.

"I don't think she'd leave soldiers to lie in wait and murder innocents," Ingrid had said tersely back.

_We aren't innocents_, thought Sylvain.

"In principle I agree," Claude had replied. "That's not her goal. But we can't underestimate her. Unpredictability is a powerful weapon."

Unpredictability or not, they hadn't found any soldiers waiting yet, and constantly jumping at every sound was wearing. The cathedral lay in ruins of stone and shattered glass that flashed its jewelled colours from odd angles in the low sun.

Mercedes let out a soft, "Oh," at the sight, but Ingrid wouldn't let them go to see. They didn't know how stable the bridges were.

Later, Sylvain heard Annette whispering to her: "The people were all evacuated. All of them. Of course they were."

"I thought the professor might be here waiting for us," Ashe said as they began to investigate the main buildings, all of which seemed to have escaped the worst of the battle. The dust lay thick on the ground and betrayed no footprints, but the smoke lay thick on the air and confused the edges of everything.

"She might still be," said Annette hopefully. "The Deer might find her in the town."

It was too quiet for that. If there was anything living in the town, Sylvain was sure he would have felt it. But he said nothing.

"She's not here," said Felix, who of course couldn't resist. "Nobody's here but us."

"Felix," said Sylvain. "Do you have to be like this?"

"If everybody else is scared of the truth."

"You don't know what the truth is any more than we do," said Annette, stung.

"Right," said Ashe. "And the professor has a good track record for miraculous escapes."

"Whatever. Believe what you want."

"What did I say about best behaviour?" said Sylvain.

Felix turned on him slowly. "I'm sorry, is my _tone_ too antagonising?"

"Yeah, I'm going to go ahead and not take the bait.” He took hold of Felix by the collar. “Come on, you. Let's put that antagonising tone to use hunting Imperial soldiers, shall we?"

His voice didn't even catch. He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, as though the Empire was their enemy - had always been their enemy - and not their classmates.

The storehouses had been ransacked for supplies but the weapons stores were left untouched - what need did an army have for school supplies? The stables were empty. There were no people. Sylvain didn't go down to the town. He didn't approach the unmanned gate. He let himself believe there were no people.

They crossed paths with other students, or saw them across lawns and courtyards, shapes at windows which waved to show they were friendly. Not Claude, though. He seemed to be always elsewhere.

Word was sent to the rest of the evacuated monastery inhabitants in the valley that Garreg Mach was safe for tonight, and the students drifted off, alone with their thoughts, trying to reconcile the reality of today to the reality of yesterday.

*

Sylvain found himself in the dormitory corridor, where all of his things lay undisturbed and the smoke had hardly reached. _There's a war_, he thought. _We're at war._ He couldn't make it stick.

A sound, not loud but sudden. Enough to make him think, _His Highness is back_, and that enough to send him cold, make him notice how very dark it had become since he'd been sat in here trying to understand. Not Dimitri, of course, just one of those sounds that buildings made sometimes, untraceable. Still, though, once he'd become aware of his position, at the end of the corridor with Dimitri's room between him and the stairs, he couldn't forget about it. Dimitri had barely seemed to recognise him, and if in the middle of the night he decided Sylvain was an enemy… He left his room quickly and quietly.

All the other rooms were empty and dark, unwelcoming. Ingrid's door was closed but a faint glow flickered under the door. He knocked, trying to calm himself down.

She frowned at him when she opened the door. "Sylvain?"

"I'm not staying there tonight," he said.

"Where?" But she let him in anyway.

"Next to His Highness's room. I can't do it."

For a moment he thought she was going to pretend she didn't know what he was talking about, but she just sighed. "You can stay."

"Thank you."

She sat down again by the fire and picked up her book. "This is the part where you're supposed to say something awful and I yell at you." She glanced up at him. "You know. For old times' sake."

He dredged up a grin from somewhere. "I couldn't help but notice there's only one bed."

She smiled back, tentatively. "You sleep on the floor."

"I'd expect nothing less."

Ingrid read and Sylvain lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. "We should put something up against the door," he said.

"Hm?"

"In case, you know."

"Edelgard won't come back in the middle of the night. No matter what Claude says."

"No, but His Highness will."

She turned around. "Are you serious? He's your prince."

"Yeah, and being torn apart by my own prince isn't on my list of top ways to die."

"Come on."

"You saw him. We all saw him. You get some sleep and I'll take first watch."

"Watch? Sylvain, you sound crazy."

He shook his head. "I know what crazy sounds like. Where's Felix?"

Ingrid shrugged.

Sylvain closed his eyes. "Well, that's a recipe for disaster. And murder."

He heard Ingrid's book close. "We can't go looking for him now."

"We can't leave him out there like a snake for someone to tread on. I should have kept a better eye on him."

"He's not a child."

"No, he's an idiot."

They were interrupted by a soft knock on the door, and fell silent. Ingrid's irritated calm fell away. She looked as wary as Sylvain felt. He put a finger to his lips and crept to the door, put his ear to it. Nothing to be heard. He swallowed, braced, opened it.

"Oh!" Annette said, her voice bright and brittle. "You're not Ingrid!"

"Annette?" asked Ingrid from behind him.

She looked from Ingrid to Sylvain, trying and failing to hide her suspicious interest. "I just came to say that everyone's in Mercie's room, if you want to come. She's made tea. And she found a stash of pastries she had hidden, so if you want some company…" Her eyes were almost pleading.

"Thanks for the offer," said Ingrid. "Sounds…"

"Weird," said Sylvain.

"Nice," Ingrid finished decidedly, ignoring him. "We'll be right there."

"Is Dedue there?" Sylvain asked.

Annette shook her head. "I haven't seen him, but I guess he's...with His Highness."

"Of course. And Felix?"

Another shake of the head. "I thought he'd be with you. But you're with… Ingrid."

"Dammit."

"Sylvain," began Ingrid.

"I'll go find him."

"It's too dark-"

"Go with Annette. I'll be there soon."

She tried to pull him back. "Hey, just… Try to be careful?"

He winked. "I'm always careful, beautiful."

She pushed him through the doorway. "Okay, get out."

There was really only one place he could think of to look, so it was a good thing Felix was there. It was less a good thing that that place was in the torch-lit training ground running through forms with live steel in his hands, but Felix managed to stop himself before any damage was done, and Sylvain eventually stopped yelling, “It’s me! It’s just me!” and sat down on a stool to get his breath back and calm his racing heart.

“What are you doing here?” growled Felix, sheathing his sword.

“Forgive me for making sure you haven’t murdered anyone.”

Felix rolled his eyes. “Who is there to murder? This place is a graveyard.”

Sylvain put his head in his hands. “Please don’t.”

“Just because the rest of you can’t-”

“Give it a rest.” Sylvain sighed. “Don’t make me be the Ingrid here. Everybody knows exactly what’s going on here. We’re at war. This place is full of corpses. Nobody needs you to remind them all the time.”

“Whatever.”

"Also, you literally almost murdered me right now, so don't give me that "nobody to murder" stuff."

Felix scoffed.

“Anyway, everyone’s spending the night in Mercedes’s room, so I came to get you.”

Felix’s lip curled.

“Yeah,” said Sylvain. “I know. World’s weirdest sleepover.”

“Have fun.” Felix drew his sword again.

“You’re coming too.”

“I am not.”

“Just come.”

“I’m not going to be caught by the Imperial army in a _bedroom_,” said Felix hotly. “Drinking..._tea_ and...sharing _secrets_! If they come for me I’ll be ready.”

“Yeah, yeah, sword in your hand, facing the dawn, whatever. Look, Ingrid’s worried about you.”

Felix glowered.

“She’ll feel better if you’re there.” Sylvain knew exactly how thick to lay it on. No plaintiveness in the voice, no eye contact, keep it simple and stark. Let Felix do the work himself. One nudge too many and he'd dig in his heels out of spite.

“Fine.” Felix almost spat the word. He didn't put down his sword - and glared at Sylvain as if daring him to say something.

He needn't have bothered. Sylvain was glad to see him take it.

"Well?" said Felix at the gate of the training ground, when Sylvain hadn't moved. "Are we going? Or do you want to catch up on some of the training you missed the rest of the year?"

"You go on ahead. I'll be there soon."

He thought Felix might say something, but after a long, unreadable look, he only sighed and left.

He considered giving up on the idea, alone in the training ground. _Not the time or place_, he thought, and it was true, but he didn't stop himself. Had there ever really been a right time or place? What difference did it really make now?

*

_If he's not there, it's a sign_, he thought. _If he's not there then it's fate and I'll accept it graciously._

Claude's door stood in front of him.

Sylvain had never been inside. Strange, the things he could think about in the midst of a war. Not that it felt like a war at night with the monastery to themselves, inside where they couldn't see the destruction. Almost normal, if he didn't look too hard.

He knocked.

He didn't have to wait long before Claude opened the door. A moment of suspicion, then guileless recognition, and then something else.

"Hey," said Sylvain. He made himself smile in the dark. "You free?"

He hoped he'd read Claude's expression wrong, but there was no misinterpreting his voice. No misinterpreting the way he placed himself so carefully between door and jamb. "Sylvain…"

"Things are crazy out there and I could use the company."

Claude looked over Sylvain's shoulder. "I don't think this is a good idea."

Sylvain laughed. "As opposed to all those other great ideas everybody's been having lately."

"I can't help," said Claude.

"No, that's the thing. You can. You absolutely can. You've done it before. After Miklan. After Remire."

Claude met his eyes for the first time. "This is different to any of that."

"It's the same. It's all the same thing." Sylvain moved his hand to put it on Claude's shoulder, and Claude moved further back into his room.

"We can't."

"Who's stopping us? What's different?"

"We're on different sides of a war now," said Claude. "And I guess we always were, but we didn't know it then, and we do now, and we can't just pretend."

Sylvain set his jaw. "Edelgard's out _there_, as I recall."

“I said different, not opposite,” said Claude, with a flash of his old self, impatient and ready to explain. It didn’t last long. He cut himself off and looked away again. “We’re going in different directions.”

“Tomorrow. We still have tonight.”

“We can’t.”

“Of course we can.”

“And when we go-”

Sylvain leaned against the doorframe, striking his most roguish pose. “We could go together.”

“What?” There was a smile there, though. The old Claude was still in there, and it was just a case of tempting him back.

“You know. Head to Almyra. Leave all this behind. The two of us. Like we planned.”

The smile had already faded. “You’re crazy.”

“Maybe we’re both crazy. You can’t tell me it wouldn’t be great.”

“We still can’t do it.”

“There are villages nearby,” said Sylvain. “We could get a couple of horses, bring supplies from the monastery. Nobody would know we’d even gone until we were far away.”

“That's a cute idea,” said Claude.

Sylvain tilted his head invitingly. “You once asked me how our story ended. I'm telling you this is how.”

Claude looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers, curling and uncurling them into a fist. “You won’t go to Almyra.”

“Who says?”

“I do. They need you, and you won’t leave them. That's not who you are.”

“I’m supposed to leave you instead?”

Claude laughed sadly. "Leave what? What is this? We had a good time, and then the world got in the way and a war started.”

“Oh,” said Sylvain. “Well. I didn’t realise that was how it was.”

“Sylvain-”

“No, I know how hard it is to break up with someone.” He managed a wink. “I won’t make it any harder on you. I guess that’s it, then. I thought we could make it a little longer.”

“Imagine if Edelgard had managed to sit on her hands till graduation.”

“Imagine that.” He didn’t want to imagine it. He didn’t want to think about that imaginary him, basking in what-might-have-beens, saying his goodbyes as they all packed up to return to their homes. He would have punched that imaginary him in his imaginary face.

Because Claude was right, of course. They couldn’t run away. There were things that needed to be done, and Sylvain had to do them.

“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Before you go.”

“Maybe,” said Claude, but Sylvain knew when he was being lied to.

“Stay safe.”

“You too.”

“Good night.”

The door closed.

The silence was painfully heavy, pressing in on Sylvain's eardrums.

"I thought you weren't big on sacrifice," said Sylvain accusingly to the door. "Thought you were an idealist."

He stood for a while in the empty corridor, following the threads of his thoughts to dead ends. He could…? Or…? What if…? No good. Everything led here. He felt the frustration build up in his fist, ready to slam against the door, but he waited, still, until it passed. His fingers loosened. He'd never appreciated girls who made a scene.

He took a deep, shaky breath, wiped his face. No good showing himself to the other Lions looking like this.

"Come on, Sylvain," he said to himself. “World’s worst sleepover it is.”

*

"I thought you weren't big on sacrifice. Thought you were an idealist."

Claude waited with his back to the door, breath held and eyes closed, until he heard Sylvain leave, his heart racing as if he'd fought a battle.

He’d come so close.

If Sylvain had stayed a second longer, then all of Claude’s clever strategies would have wavered, and the ridiculous ones featuring life on the run in Almyra, new identities, no responsibilities, would have come floating seductively to the fore. If Sylvain had looked at him one more moment he would have found himself reaching, casually, thoughtlessly, and then they’d have touched, and Claude’s mind was good at following scenarios to their ends, constructing realities out of possibilities.

Touch would have become grasp would have become a pull into Claude’s room and from there it was just a few steps to a ride to Almyra on stolen horses and a letter of apology to his grandfather.

It was a good thing Sylvain hadn't stayed that moment longer. That was what Claude told himself over and over. He'd done the right thing. A good thing. This was a good thing.

And he was still an idealist, whatever bitter words Sylvain said outside his door. What Sylvain didn't understand was that it didn't count as a sacrifice if what the general was sacrificing was himself.


	15. Epilogue: Hold On When You Get Love, And Let Go When You Give It

The ride home was as weird as the rest of it had been.

Sylvain hadn’t seen Claude before they left the monastery, but he hadn’t looked either. No time, he told himself, ignoring all the times he’d made time out of nothing over the months. He’d have the longest journey back, as well, all the way up to Gautier territory. He made it longer on purpose, riding with Ingrid and Felix through Galatea and Fraldarius, just for the hell of it. He had the feeling it would be the last time he'd be able to choose his own movements like this in a while.

The Lions split into two once they were out of the Oghma mountains, between the Maghdred Way and the high road leading to Fhirdiad. Then they all peeled off one by one to their territories and towns and lands.

Soon it was just Ingrid, Felix and Sylvain on the road together, and it was so almost like old times that Sylvain could pretend he’d never been to the Officers Academy at all. The roads were white with packed snow and they had to ride carefully, but he was glad for it, for the extra time he'd be able to spend in company.

“We should make Castle Galatea today,” said Ingrid as they let the horses stand and steam with their heads in nosebags. “The weather looks like it’ll hold off.”

“Don’t leave me with him,” Sylvain begged, kneeling theatrically in the snow and regretting it instantly.

“Shut up,” said Felix.

“Oh please," said Ingrid, "you love it. Both of you.”

“You know, Gautier is really nice this time of year, Ingrid. You should come and spend some time up there with us.”

“As much as I’d love to freeze in your home tundra, I think I need to go home.”

“See that?" he said to Felix. "My oldest friend, and see how she treats me.”

“I thought I was your oldest friend,” said Felix.

“You’re both my oldest friends.”

“Hey, you should both spend the night at Galatea,” said Ingrid. “There’s no point in you making it a couple of hours away before dark and spending money at an inn. Stay with us. My father hasn’t seen either of you in years. He’ll be happy to have you over.”

“As long as we don’t have to agree to marry you in exchange for a bed for the night,” said Sylvain with a wink. “Not that I wouldn’t, but I have a whole life ahead of me before I want to even think about tying myself down.”

Ingrid rolled her eyes. “You’re hilarious, you really are.”

“Felix could marry you, though. He’s got nothing better to do.”

“Hey!”

“Now be careful what you say, here. You don’t want to insult our hostess.”

“I’m not marrying him,” said Ingrid.

“Who said I wanted to marry _you_?”

“I just think you two would be cute together,” said Sylvain blithely.

“How cute do you think my sword will look in your chest?” growled Felix.

"If there's one thing I've learned at Garreg Mach it's the importance of accessorising."

He wasn't thinking about how close Galatea was to the border of the Alliance. Not even Riegan territory anyway so it didn't matter, and the world wasn't a map, with only lines and centimetres between this land and that. He could see for miles around and all of this land was Galatea. The closeness between them was an illusion.

"Sylvain?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Just making sure you're okay," said Ingrid.

"Why wouldn't I be okay?"

"Tch." Felix stalked off, closer to the road. "Do we have to?"

"Shut up, Felix, you were the one who was worried that last night in Garreg Mach."

"I wasn't _worried_, I was concerned," spat Felix over his shoulder. "It's different."

Sylvain grinned. "You were _concerned_?"

"Only that you were going to run away with him in the middle of the night."

"You really thought that of me? Wow."

Ingrid was looking around as though she hadn't heard, so she wouldn’t have to lie ineptly about how she hadn’t thought the same.

"My oldest friends," he said, shaking his head. "Of course I wouldn't run away." He paused for effect, enjoying the fun of the joke and the pain of the memory at the same time, like Claude's hands kneading out his aches, like sneezing in the woodpile at the height of his pleasure. "He wouldn't agree to come with me."

"Very funny," said Ingrid. "You know we just worry. You're our friend."

Felix just glared at him, but in a tolerant, long-suffering way.

"You won't have to worry any more," said Sylvain. "I'm done with all this. No more. From now on, it's single till we die. You with me?"

Ingrid smiled. "Single till we die."

"Felix?"

Felix dared him with his eyes.

"Ah, whatever, you don't need to say it. Being married to your sword doesn't count. You're one of us, like it or not."

"Why do you have to be like this?"

"What are you talking about? This is what you love about me!"

They saddled the horses and got back on the road, falling back into the old rhythms of their friendship as though they were untouchable. They'd spend the night at Castle Galatea catching up with the Count, and sleeping in the guest bedrooms where they'd spent many nights before. And the next morning Sylvain would leave the castle and ride out into the cold and clear day, as the road turned away from the border and into the heart of the Kingdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for making it this far! Even though I broke every single rule on making promises to the reader!
> 
> Eternal thanks and love to Janine, the progenitor goddess of this story. She gave me the prompt ("Claude finds out about the scarecrows, shenanigans ensue") and was there throughout the writing and increasingly nerve-wracking posting.
> 
> Also, thanks to everyone who commented. I'm rubbish at replying, but there was a point when every time I got a comment I'd do another pass of the forthcoming chapter because I was so determined not to disappoint you after your incredibly kind words. You made me work harder, and you made this story better.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Reciprocity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21283223) by [Mertiya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya)


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